


The Things Go Better With Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 23:45:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THRUSH has discovered just what it needs to over throw the world.  It's a new brand a cola and it's irresistible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things Go Better With Affair

PROLOGUE

 

                The man set down his can of soda and rubbed furiously at his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe what he was reading.  Shuffling through the papers before him, he turned back to the lab-coated man behind him.

 

                "Are you sure about this?"

 

                "Absolutely or I wouldn't be here if I weren't."

 

                "Hitler should have had your confidence."  Tory Cerino returned to the sheets of figures and turned one sideways. "Then and again, maybe he did and look where he ended up."

 

                "He wasn't working for THRUSH."

 

                "How do you know that?"  Tory grinned at the startled face and nodded.  "That was a joke…well, laugh."  At the half-hearted chuckle that followed, he held up his hand.  "Okay, don’t overwhelm me with your fits of hysteria.  So what are the advantages to this?"

 

                "It's odorless, tasteless and colorless.  It can be put into anything without detection."

 

                 "And the results?"

 

                "It attacks the body's immune system, killing off the white blood cells.  So, while the victim has no direct effects from the additive, months later he could suddenly collapse and die from something as simple as a head cold.  We could dump it into the water supply of a city and threaten to introduce a common germ into the area if they didn't cooperate."

 

                 "Too small; I was thinking a country might be nice."  Cerino hitched himself up onto a countertop and smiled again, a long, drawn-out smile of satisfaction. "This is just what I need to get back into THRUSH's good graces and out of this damned jungle.  I wasn't going to do this, but."  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar.  "You've done well, Watson.  Now I won't have to kill you."  At the fearful look that followed, he chuckled and began to eat the partially-melted chocolate. "Just a joke, old man."  He lifted the paper and nodded. "This is something I really like..."

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

                Napoleon Solo grunted softly at the pressure being exerted against his back, digging into firm muscles, forcing them into an unaccustomed relaxation.  Then he smiled at the soft touch of lips that followed.

 

                "Oh, Marcie, where did you learn to do that?"

 

                "Used to date a Swede and he loved rubdowns."  The woman's long hair brushed against him and Solo rolled over to pull her down to him.

 

                "Me, too, but do you know what I like even more?"  He leaned over to whisper in her ear, but a 'beep-beep' interrupted him.

 

                "Oh, Napoleon you promised," Marcie moaned, flopping back.  "I thought you were off-duty tonight."

 

                "The only time I'm off-duty is when I'm unconscious or flat on my back in the hospital."  With a sigh, he reached for the instrument.

 

 

 

                Illya Kuryakin bit his lip and thought furiously. There had to be a way out...somehow.  He couldn't surrender now, not when he was so close and had so much to lose.

 

                He fumbled with the squares, arranging them again and again, his mind racing.

 

                "Move," a voice threatened.

 

                "I'm trying to," he protested.  "Stop pushing me. I mean, literally stop pushing me.  You already have most of the bed."  His concentration was interrupted by the phone and he smiled.  "Saved by the bell."  He looked around.  "Wherever that might be."

 

                "If you can’t find it, it doesn’t count."

 

                Illya sighed and rose from the bed, remembering to catch a wine glass before it tipped over.  "And don't look at my letters."

 

                He eventually located the phone beneath a pile of clothes next to the bed and lifted the receiver to his ear.  "Kuryakin."  He moaned at the sound of his partner's voice.  "Hello, Napoleon.  Please tell me you’re just calling to be sociable."

 

                The woman on the bed shook her head.  "Good-bye, Napoleon."

 

                Illya hushed her with his hand.  "What, Napoleon?  He says, hello, Chris.  Oh, nothing, just a quiet evening at home…more or less."  He glanced over at his companion, a lovely young and very creative lab tech who was currently wearing most of his clothes.  He'd be damned if he'd tell Solo he was in the middle of a game of strip Scrabble and literally having his pants beaten off him. One more game and he'd be down to his boyish charm and nothing else.  His partner's voice drew his attention back to the phone and he nodded.  "What? Yes, every word, Napoleon.  I'll be there."  He cradled the phone and bent to retrieve his shoes.

 

                "Sorry, Chris, duty calls.  Mr. Waverly wants me."

 

                "He's not the only one.  You sure you have to leave right now?  Right-this-very-minute now?"  Reluctantly, she pulled off his shirt and passed it over. “We don’t even have time for a quickie…a really fast quickie?”

 

                "As much as that breaks my heart, no."  The exuberant, playful quality of moments ago was replaced by a cold and detached façade.  He took the shirt and shouldered into it, holding out a hand as soon as it cleared the sleeve.  "My tie?"

 

                A heavy sigh preceded its return.  "You want your gun, too, no doubt?"

 

                "Wouldn't be a well-dressed spy without it."

 

                "Got news for you, Kuryakin, you'd have to go some even with it."  Chris sat up, drawing up her knees to support her chin.  “Whatever names they might call you around HQ, fashion horse isn’t one of them.”

 

                “How reassuring,” Illya leaned over to kiss her briefly, but thoroughly.  "I'll be back as soon as I can."

 

                "Last time I heard that, you were gone for six weeks and came up with a broken leg."

 

                “But I came back,” he pointed out.   “Then I look forward to playing the reluctant patient and the winsome, alluring, but naughty nurse.” Illya kissed her again and grabbed up his jacket.  Before heading out the door, he turned back to say, "And don't look at my letters."

 

 

                Illya pocketed his keys as he walked down the silent, bare halls of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters.  At times like this, it almost seemed peaceful here, as if the place was asleep.  If only the streets of New York City could make the same claim.  It never ceased to amaze him how the traffic seemed to know when you were in a hurry and planned delays accordingly.

 

                He paused outside of Waverly's office for a brief second to make sure he was in a semblance of order before entering.

 

                His partner, Napoleon Solo, was already seated at the circular table and nodded his welcome.  In his hand he had a crumpled can of soda which struck Kuryakin as odd, for Solo was not the soft drink type.  He sat and folded his hands before him without comment.  Waverly, busy with the task of filling his pipe, hadn't even bothered to look up, but Illya knew the man was aware of his presence.

 

                "So good of you to join us, Mr. Kuryakin."  The words that finally came were dry, the tone disciplinary.

 

                "Yes, Sir."  Illya looked down at his hands, experience telling him not to argue.  To have gotten here any faster, he'd have needed something other than a car.  "Napoleon said something was up."

 

                "Yes, indeed, Mr. Kuryakin, something is.  What, however, remains to be seen."  Waverly spun the table top until the can of soda was before him.  "Give me your opinion on this."

 

                Illya hefted the container, not surprised to find it empty.  Obviously, the labs had gotten to it before him.  This also meant there was something that deemed noting on the can itself, not just the contents.

 

                "What do you see?"  Waverly watched as the Russian dug a pair of glasses from a jacket pocket and put them on.

 

                Kuryakin turned the object over and over in his hands.  The name was not familiar to him, but, like Napoleon, he didn't drink much soda.  "Initially, there’s not much worth noting.  The can itself looks crushed, from the sides, not top to bottom, which would indicated that it was squeezed rather than collapsed.  It was packed in San Jose and stored in San Francisco.  It has the usual levels of calories, sodium, et cetera..."  Then he trailed off as he tipped the can away from him.  Scratched on the bottom were the words, 'Must send to UNCLE -NY ASAP' with a series of scrapes beside it.  Illya scowled and studied the label again.  Above the name, 'Drink Me', someone had etched faintly into the metal, 'Don't'.

 

                "What does this all mean, Sir?"  Napoleon was confused and getting more so with each passing minute.  His partner hadn't uncovered anything he'd missed.

 

                "This was found with the remains of Vincent Copella, a field agent out of Lansing.  He was in San Francisco vacationing when he stepped out in front of a city bus."

 

                "Suicide," Solo asked, sitting forward, brow furrowed, concern marring the handsome features.  He took it personally when an agent died, even when it was an unfamiliar agent like Copella.

 

                “Why travel halfway across the country to kill yourself, Napoleon, when you carry a gun on a daily basis?  Besides, if he’d had suicidal tendencies, he’d have never been assigned as a field agent.”

 

                “Murder then?”

 

                "The driver had a spotless record. From extensive investigation by both UNCLE and the bus line, it would appear to have been a simple accident.  Mr. Copella was so engrossed in that can that he stepped out in front of the bus and never saw it.  It was still clutched in his hand when he was found."

 

                "Nothing is simple when you're an UNCLE agent," Illya interrupted, still toying with the can.  "What about this then?"

 

                "Obviously, he had intended to send it along to us, but never got the chance. Another argument against suicide.  The unusual part about it is that he had several cans of this…beverage in his possession when he was struck down."  Waverly lifted a report and shuffled through the paper inside.  "When the lab analyzed on them, this is what they came up with."  He immediately passed the folder to Kuryakin bypassing Solo. The senior officer knew that the papers inside would be within his partner’s scope of experience and he simply sat back to await his turn.

 

                Illya repositioned his glasses and glanced through the first few papers swiftly. "They were contaminated?"

 

                "With that chemical."

 

                "But this is harmless," Illya protested almost instantly.  "These are common amino acid chains, nothing deadly.  I don't understand."  He handed the report to Solo.

 

                "Neither do we, but we have reason to believe that THRUSH is somehow involved."  Mr. Waverly touched a match to the contents of his pipe and began to puff.

 

                "Where they are concerned, we can't afford not to understand."  Napoleon looked up from the lab report.  He didn’t try to make sense of the jumble of letters and numbers upon the pages or even to study the charts with their various spikes and valleys.  He looked simply to retain any information that might be necessary in the future. “But there are no direct indications…”  Solo started.  Illya had abandoned the lab report for the can, holding it up again.

 

                “Napoleon…” Illya interrupted softly.

 

                “If all indications are that it was…”

 

                “Napoleon,” the Russian said again, but that agent merely flicked a glance in his direction and then back to Waverly.

 

                “As upset as I am...”  Shaking his head, Illya reached out and grabbed Solo’s head at the base of his neck, forcing the man to look at him and the can in his hand.  Catching the light just right, was looked like a mass of random scratches suddenly coalesced into a familiar bird like shape.

 

                   "And that is why you and Mr. Kuryakin are booked on the next flight to California.  You will investigate Mr. Copella’s death and ascertain whether or not THRUSH might have had a hand in it, as well as any possible connections between them and the drink."  Tickets were placed on the table and rotated into place.  "Please be there on time, Mr. Kuryakin."

 

                "Yes, sir," they chorused together and rose.  It didn’t take a trained agent to recognize that they’d been summarily dismissed and Waverly was already focusing upon his next task at hand.

 

                The pair remained silent until they were in the relative security of the hallway, well away from Waverly's office.

 

                "Hmm, we leave at 11 o'clock.  No special UNCLE flight?"  Illya tucked the airline ticket away into a jacket pocket along with his glasses.  “Urgent, but not that urgent,” Illya muttered, his blue eyes half closed in thought.  “He must think something big is happening or he’d have sent out other agents.”  He punched the elevator button.

 

                "The Old Man doesn't think THRUSH knows we're onto them yet.  If Copella's death really was just a random accident, he may be right."

 

                "And if it wasn't?"

 

                "Then we'll just have to be careful when we take public transit."

 

                “But why assign us?  Why not assign it to someone in the SF office?  I was on a 9 a.m. to Uzbekistan in the morning. ” 

 

                “Mark is now.  I suppose he thought that we might not be as well known on that coast as the local agents will be.  It might give us a bit of an edge.”

 

                “Okay, let me pack and I’ll pick you up at 10.”

 

                “That’s cutting it a bit close, isn’t it?”

 

                “Then I’ll drive fast.”

 

                “Waverly finds out that we missed the flight because you and the utter delectable Chris were having one more rouler dans le foir and there will be hell to pay.”

 

                “Funny, Napoleon, and improperly conjugated by the way.”

 

                “I speak French from the heart and not the textbook.”   They stepped out the elevator and into the reception area of H.Q.  Solo unpinned his I.D. badge and handed it to the receptionist.  “See you at 10 and for god sakes, pace yourself.”

    

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

                Illya Kuryakin glanced around the lobby of the Stanyan Park Hotel, studying the layout, searching for possible dangers, watching for the unseen.  This was one of the city's several renovation projects:  rebuilt, remodelled, but still keeping its turn-of-the-century charm.  THRUSH certainly had no place here.  It always amazed him at just how compact everything in this city seemed.  No bit of space was left unused or ignored and when all horizontal space was used, the builders simply went vertical.

 

                He looked over at Solo, guarding the man's back out of many years of practice.  He always dreaded these assignments, preferring that THRUSH knew of their presence. This 'maybe they do, maybe they don't' situation always required a heighten sense of alertness that was difficult to maintain and easy to lose. 

 

                His eye caught by the desk clerk, who gave him a wink and a knowing nod before passing the keys over to Solo. The dark-haired agent accepted them with a polite smile and a $20 bill exchanged hands. 

 

                “I’ll have your bags sent right up, Mr. Solo.  As requested, they will be left in the hall and I shall see to it that you won’t be disturbed.”

 

                “Thank you,” He smiled that warm Solo grin and the desk clerk beamed back.  “Illya?”  He nodded towards the staircase and started to walk, Kuryakin close at his heels.

 

                "What was that all about?" Illya demanded, as soon as they made the second floor landing.

 

                "I asked for Copella's room."  Napoleon looked from the key to the posted room numbers and headed right.  "It's a single."

 

                "So?"

 

                "Illya, this is San Francisco."  He stopped as if that was enough explanation.

 

                "Napoleon, it is all very well to be cryptic on occasion and in fact, I'm fond of it myself.  This is neither the time nor the place."

 

                Solo halted before a door and opened it.  "How many years have you been in America?"

 

                "About five or so, officially."  Illya tossed his jacket onto the bed and looked about their cramped quarters.  “And a few more than that unofficially, why?”  He started to undo his tie.

 

                "Illya, we are two grown men, obviously in our prime, and there is only one bed in here."

 

                "So I noticed.  Sort of takes up just about the whole room, doesn't it?  Reminds me a little of those sleeper tubes in Tokyo.  I still don't understand."

 

                "My dear Mr. Kuryakin, San Francisco has one of the highest homosexual populations in the country.  The guy at the counter thinks we're...together."

 

                "Well, we are..."  Illya trailed off as Solo's meaning suddenly became quite clear to him. “Surely Waverly doesn’t believe all those rumors, Napoleon”

 

                “I know he doesn’t.”   Wordless, Illya snatched back up his jacket and headed for the door.

  "Where are you going?"

 

                "To the car UNCLE SF left for us while I still have enough dignity salvaged to walk through the lobby with my head up."

 

                "Good, you can check it over for bugs."  Napoleon slapped his hands together.  "I'm going to start here."

 

                "UNCLE's already gone over this room with a fine toothed comb."  Illya set the case down again.  "What do you hope to find that they didn't?"

 

                "Lab techs are very good at what they do, but they're not agents and they’re not used to having to cover their own tracks.  If Copella stumbled across something by accident, I expect to find nothing.  However..."

 

                "However, there's always that possibility."  The Russian nodded in agreement and tossed his jacket aside, the car temporarily forgotten.

 

                Systematically, they moved through the room, checking every lip, crevice, hidden spot they could locate and reach.

 

                "Hey!"  Illya sat up from his exploration of the carpet nap beneath the bed.

 

                "What?"  Solo leaned out of the bathroom. "Find something?"

 

                "Yeah, a quarter."  Illya held it up for display.  “Been there awhile too, considering the dust upon it.  The maids could spend more time vacuuming under the beds in this place.”

 

                "Now you can retire while you're still young."

 

                "And alive,” Illya added, brushing off his hands and then turning his attention to the knees of his pants.  "I think this may be pointless, Napoleon."  He tossed the coin onto the pile of debris on the bed.  “We don’t even know whether any of this even belonged to Copella.”

 

                "You may be right." 

 

                “What was he doing out here anyway, Napoleon?  He wasn’t on assignment.  I checked before leaving New York.”

 

                “Illya…again, San Francisco, single agent, bath houses…you really are dense some times.  And you call yourself a Smart Russian.”  Solo left the bathroom for the bed, poking a finger through the assortment.  "Let's see what we have.  A theater ticket stub,  Fences  not a bad show, 47 cents, a cancelled stamp, another stub, this time to the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose, a bobby pin, an earring..." He trailed off.  “Not much to work with really.”

 

                "Now what, oh Great Leader," Illya asked, hoisting himself off the floor in one easy movement.

 

                Solo checked his watch.  “It’s too late now to call, but tomorrow I'll make an appointment to see the warehouse facilities of 'Drink Me' and we can have a look around."

 

                 "Could I be the journalist this time?  I get so tired of having to be the photographer."

 

                "You look like one, Illya, my good fellow.  That's ninety percent of the game."  At the sullen face, he reached out and slapped a shoulder.  "Tell you what; I'll buy you dinner tonight."

 

                "Fine with me," Illya said and went to his suitcase to find a plastic bag.  Habit forced him to save anything they'd found in their search.

 

                "What do you feel like?"  Solo hefted the phone book and thumbed to the restaurant listings.

 

                 "Anything really, as long as it's expensive…really expensive."

 

                 "And I say thank God for per diems."  Solo flipped the pages, eyes scanning their options.  He stopped and began to grin widely.  "Here's something I think you'll like."

 

                “Why are you smiling like that, Napoleon?  That always makes me nervous when you smile like that.”

 

                “Trust me.”

 

 

 

 

                The trip to the Russian Renaissance proved to be just the ticket, at least to Solo's way of thinking.  It constantly amazed him at the change in Illya after adding just a few, well, several ounces of vodka.  He came to life, joking, smiling, yes, Solo decided, almost human.  Of course, tomorrow morning he'd be a bear to work with, but it was worth it tonight.

 

                Napoleon drove as he glanced over at his partner, who was contentedly watching out the window at the passing lights and humming.  Suddenly, he sat up and pointed.

 

                "Napoleon, look at that!"

 

                The dark-haired agent was used to his partner's outbursts, so he managed to keep from swerving into the car beside him as his arm was grabbed.

 

                "What?"  He looked in the direction of the pointing finger.

 

                "It’s a store."

 

                "Yes, I can see it’s a store, Illya.  What’s so special about it?"

 

                “Can’t you see?  Look!  Stop the car, Napoleon.”

 

                Obligingly, Solo maneuvered the car around and drove into the small area allotted for store parking, still waiting for Illya to explain why they were stopping.   The Russian, however, merely climbed out and walked rapidly into the store, leaving Solo to trail behind keeping an eye open for anything.

 

                Napoleon got as far as the magazine rack and was flipping through the latest "Playboy" when his elbow was roughly jostled, followed by, "Napoleon, come here quickly."

 

                Sighing, the dark-haired agent complied, only to be brought over to a refrigeration unit.

 

                "Yes?"

 

                 "The big poster on the front window?   Third shelf?  Tell me I've had too much to drink and I’ll blame it on the evils of vodka."

 

                "Okay, you've had too..."  A bright now-familiar can caught his attention.  "I think we're too late.  THRUSH has already moved."  He reached out and picked up a can of 'Drink Me' cola.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

    

Napoleon Solo hunched a shoulder up to keep the receiver to his ear.  "Yes, I'm still holding," he murmured tonelessly.  From the desk where he was sitting, he frowned over at his partner.

 

                The blond was stretched out on the bed, communicator in hand.  "Yes, Sir, I'm aware of the cost of shipping that package air, but seeing how THRUSH could perhaps already be carrying out its plan, we felt the cost was justified." Illya made a face at Solo.

 

                Solo returned back to his business as sound crackled in his ear.  Abruptly, the tinny music he'd been half listening to was replaced by a man's voice."  Mr. Solo?"

 

                 "Yes."  He sat up straighter.

 

                 "Douglas Appleby here.  What was my secretary telling me about your wanting to do a story on us?"

 

                "If possible, Mr. Appleby.  My paper has been amazed at how 'Drink Me Cola' has taken off, especially in the Bay area.  I'd be interested in interviewing you and some of your employees as a feature."

 

                "Wouldn't it be better to talk to the processing plant itself?  San Jose isn't that far off and you'd probably get a better story for your efforts."

 

                 Solo immediately scratched down 'San Jose' while not breaking stride.  "We are, sir, but we'd like to cover all aspects of the production from start to finish.  We've already shot footage at several local stores."

 

                "Footage?  I thought you said you were from a newspaper."

 

                "Rest assured I am, but it's amazing how many more readers you gain for each full color photo.  It's really a shame, the lack of reading that takes place these days."

 

                 "Yes, well, I suppose I could give you a tour of the place.  After 1:00 today, ok?"

 

                "Perfect.  We appreciate your cooperation, sir.  Thank you."  Solo cradled the phone and flashed a thumbs up sign at his partner.

 

                Douglas Appleby sat back and looked down at the paper in his hand, then leaned forward.  "Miss Hart, could you check on the name, Napoleon Solo, for me?  Check the UNCLE file; it should be there under 'field agents'."  He clicked the intercom off and crumpled the paper in his hand.

 

 

                "Mr. Solo?"  Napoleon looked in the direction of the sound and was greeted by the voluptuous blonde who was coming across the warehouse floor as quickly as her very tight skirt would permit.  Solo smiled at the sight and Illya frowned, first at his partner, then at the woman, then at the light meter he held.  Trust Solo to come up with something like this.

 

                "Hello."  She approached Solo and held out her hand. "I'm Susan Sondheim, Mr. Applegate's personal secretary...or is that Appleby?  I get confused.  Oh well, he was called away on a most urgent errand this afternoon."  She retrieved her hand from Solo and offered it to Kuryakin, who merely snapped forward in a quick bow.  She regarded him curiously for a moment, and then a smile returned to her face.  "Okay, then, you’re one of those weirdos.  I'm going to show you around this place."  Susan made an expansive gesture with her arms and her chest bobbed enthusiastically in response. "Isn't that exciting?"

 

                "More than you could possibly know," Kuryakin muttered softly.

 

                "Thank you, Miss Sondheim.  I'm sure it will be an experience."  Napoleon took out a note pad and nodded. "Shall we begin?"

 

                And it proved to be just that.  The tour was surface, nothing in depth that sparked either man's curiosity.  Miss Sondheim either was a genius at hiding her intelligence or was actually one step up from being a classic example of a dumb blonde.  At the moment, Solo couldn't tell which, but he did know the switch from Appleby to her as their guide wasn't accidental.  Aside from the free sample of 'Drink Me Cola', they brought nothing away from the tour with them.

 

                "What a waste," Illya plopped back onto the bed and toed off his shoes.  "Talk about your bubble-headed bleach blondes.  How could someone work for a company and not have the faintest idea what goes on there?"

 

                "There are a lot of them, Illya, my boy, even in UNCLE.  Of course, with us it’s more design than in most cases.   Many people just don't care."  Napoleon tossed the pad down on the desk top and undid his tie.  "Still, I have a feeling that that's exactly why she was picked to show us around this afternoon."

 

                "You think THRUSH is on to us?"

 

                "Possibly, and if they are, it won't take long for them to track us down."  Napoleon pulled his sample can from a pocket and tossed it to Kuryakin.  "In the meantime, we'll send this back for some testing."

 

                "Wouldn't it be a death wish to give us a can of tainted cola?"

 

                "Not if they want to get rid of us.  Now, why don't you put your shoes on and we'll go do some shopping."

 

                "Beg pardon?"  The Russian's head came up.

 

                "I want to find some more 'Drink Me Cola'.  I feel a powerful thirst coming on."

 

 

    

 

Tory Cerino pulled the fabric of his shirt away from his skin and sighed.  "I will sure be glad when THRUSH perfects that frost weapon.  I can't wait to blast this whole place."

 

                 "The environmentalists would have your ass." A voice came from a nearby cubicle Nathan Barre was a similar prisoner as Cerino.  Failed at his previous task, Barre was sent here on disciplinary action - stuck here until he got back into THRUSH's good graces or someone screwed up worse than he.  Barre continued, "How do you know about the frost machine?  That's tip-top secret."

 

                "Know about it?  Who do you think copied the stupid plans to begin with?"

 

                "Didn't know you were a second-story man."  Barre came and sat beside him.

 

                "M'not, but I was the copyboy for a while back at THRUSH Central."  Cerino closed his eyes in remembrance - the cool, dim halls, the air conditioner...ice.

 

                "After you lost that computer memory device...?"

 

                "Yeah.  Every situation has its drawbacks and advantages, although I'm having a hard time seeing the good side of this place.  Why they'd ever put a satrapy in Haiti is beyond me."

 

                "It got you to produce."

 

                "So would a good-looking, cooperative woman.  That’s another thing this place is totally lacking.  I’m so tired of dancing with Rose and her four daughters that I could scream."

 

                 "You're frustrating me again and we don't have any cold water left."  Barre grinned as he popped open a can of soda. "How is the soda invasion coming, by the way?"

 

                "Not as well as I'd like.  I'm not happy about losing that one tainted can and the fact that it's still missing doesn't help.  However, on the plus side, San Francisco is buying up the stuff by the caseful.  All we have to do is wait until the tests are finished and we can replace the good with the...heh, heh, heh, bad."  Cerino gulped his soda and suppressed a belch. "And we can get out of this hothouse and back into the real world."

 

                 "It may not be that easy," Barre interrupted.  "I didn't want to be the one to tell you this."

 

                "What?  I'm in a good mood, I won't beat you."

 

                "There seems to have been a certain N. Solo taking a tour of our SF warehouse.  Thankfully, Appleby got Susan to take them around so that problem was solved."

 

                 "What?"  The effect was immediate, then came a puzzled, "Susan?"

 

                 "Yeah, you know, ole 'the lights are on, but everyone's on vacation' Susan."

               

                 "Ah, the one with the misfiring spark plugs.  How did Solo get to San Francisco without us knowing about it? Was...shudder...Kuryakin with him?"

 

                "Don't know, the report didn't say, but I would suspect so.  Those two are inseparable."

 

                "San Francisco is the place for them."

 

                "You don't believe all those rumors, do you?"

 

                 "Believe 'em?  Hell, I started 'em.  Is all the fixed stuff still under lock and key?"

 

                "Snug as a bug in a lady's bra."

 

                "Then, let them look.  They won’t find anything."

 

 

 

                Illya Kuryakin sank deeper into the bucket seat of their rental car.  His head hurt, his feet hurt, he was not a happy spy.

 

                Napoleon Solo came out of the Express shipping office, whistling and slapping his hands together.

 

                "Sure, until Mr. Waverly sees the bill," Illya said as his partner climbed happily into the car.

 

                "It's okay, I've got it all figured out."

 

                "Good, then you can talk to Mr. Waverly tomorrow.  I intend to sleep in."

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

                "But, Sir...yes, Sir...I know it's expensive, but in lieu of the situation...yes, Sir, only one can...I understand...Solo out."

 

                Napoleon Solo set down the communicator and sighed.  Life with superiors was seldom smooth.  He picked up his coffee and settled back, sipping at the French Roast absent mindedly.

 

                "You know, Napoleon," Illya said, emerging from the shower followed by clouds of billowing steam, a towel around his neck, another around his waist.  "Something is bothering me."

 

                "Only one thing?"

 

                "No, several, now that you mention it.   I prefer things tidy."

 

                 "Unlike your apartment."  Solo moved his feet to prevent them from being dripped on.  "So, what's on your mind?"

 

                "THRUSH isn't packaging that soda here and I doubt the tampering would be handled at this end either.  That would be done during the canning process."

 

                "I agree, but we couldn't get another address from our Miss Sondheim at the local shop."

 

                "Though doubtless you tried."  Illya began to towel his hair.  "Of course, the can does say packaged in San Jose."

 

                 "It does?"  Solo sat up.

 

                "And there was that ticket for the Winchester Mystery House, also in San Jose.  Might not be connected, but then again it might.  Anyhow, I was just thinking."  He returned to the bathroom now that most of the steam had migrated out.

 

                "I really hate smart Russians," Solo murmured, displeasure clouding his features and he reached for the phone to get directions for San Jose.

 

 

 

                "And I thought it was hot in the City."  Illya pushed his sunglasses back into place with a thumb and tried the same with his hair.  Sweat had plastered it to his forehead and the wind from his open window did nothing more than make the hot air in the car even hotter.  “Is this the local joke, give the guys from out of town the car without air conditioning or are there dynamics here that I’m unaware of.”

 

                "This has nothing on a hot spell in New York."  Solo gunned the engine to shoot around a slower-moving vehicle.  “It’s not as humid here.”

 

                 "True, but it's like this all the time here."

 

                "Point taken." Solo spared him a glance before returning to the interstate traffic.  "Where's the turn off for this Mystery House?"

 

                Illya wrestled the map into position.  "Should be the next exit coming up, aptly named 'Winchester Blvd'."

 

                 "Clever."

 

                "Isn't it?  Wonder what we'll find there, if anything."

 

                "Nothing if we're lucky.  I'd like to think the stuff is just contained in San Francisco, especially since that processing plant has closed up and moved, with no forwarding address, of course."  Solo maneuvered the car onto the off-ramp and down onto the residential street.  Almost immediately, a sign heralding the Winchester Mystery House sprung into view.  "They weren't kidding when they said the next right.  It looks like we're here."

 

                 Illya pushed his glasses up onto his head and gaped, "Look at the size of that place.  What a maze!"

 

     "Just right for a THRUSH to build a nest in."  Solo parked beneath the scant shade of a palm tree and shook his head.  "Talk about your proverbial needles in haystacks."

 

                Abruptly, Illya sank down into the car seat, dropping his head onto his chest.

 

                "Illya?"  Solo reached over to grasp a forearm. "What's wrong?  Are you ill?  I told you to go easy last night."

 

                "THRUSH at 10:00 high."

 

                Solo followed the direction.  "Are you sure?"

 

                "I knifed the taller one.  Trust me, I never forget a victim."

 

                "I suppose that helps to verify our suspicions, but that's not going to make you any less obvious.  Can you do something?"

 

                "Napoleon, I am not a chameleon!"

 

                "I didn't mean that.  Brush your hair back or something like that.  They've gone in.  Come on."  Solo climbed out. "We can't afford to lose them."

 

 

                Napoleon Solo glanced through a booklet on the eccentric Sarah Winchester and the result of her monumental building feats.  One eye carefully kept track of the previously spotted enemy agents, the other for any possibly ensuing trouble.  For their part, however, the pair of THRUSH seemed blissfully unaware of the UNCLE agents' presence.  Hopefully, it would continue that way.

 

                A cough at his shoulder drew his attention.  He looked past a display of magnets and to his nearby much-altered Russian partner.

 

                Napoleon replaced the book in the rack and wandered over to him.  "I knew you had something up your sleeve...or lack thereof.  You look like a hood."

 

                 Kuryakin had abandoned his jacket, tie and shirt, wearing just his tee shirt, one sleeve rolled up and over what appeared to be a pack of cigarettes.  His hair was slicked back and a very large pair of mirrored sunglasses hid most of his upper face.

 

                "Thanks, I think.  Now, if they don't pick me out."

 

                "I seriously doubt your mother could."

 

                 "Thanks, but I wouldn't want her to."

 

                 A crackle of static interrupted him and the loudspeaker came to life.  "Tour Number 19 is ready to depart in the courtyard for their tour of the amazing Winchester Mystery House."

 

                 "That's us," Solo said, handing him a ticket.

 

                "And our THRUSH friends.  At least, we won't have any trouble keeping an eye on them."

 

                "And hopefully not vice-versa."

 

                And so the game went, through the Carriage Room, specially designed to accommodate the horse-drawn rig of reclusive Sarah Winchester, to the $25,000 Storage Room, which contained all the building supplies, Tiffany windows, moldings, and velvet wallpapers to be used at the time of Sarah's death.

 

                "Thirteen was Sarah Winchester's favorite number.  She had 13 bathrooms, which each contain 13 windows.  Her will had 13 parts..."  The guide recited easily, pointing to various spots as the need arose.  Illya was studying a staircase that led to the ceiling when a feeling of being watched came over him.

 

                He looked over, gaze locking with that of the taller, more dangerous-looking THRUSH.  The man's fist clasping and unclasping confirmed Illya's suspicion.  He'd been recognized, but it didn't appear as though the man had had time to warn his partner and Illya hoped to keep it that way.  He glanced over at an 'Employees Only' door and mentally crossed his fingers.

 

                The door was unlocked and it led into an unfinished corridor, bare beams, slats, and frayed electrical wires exposed to view.

 

                "Congratulations, you're in part of the house damaged by the 1906 Earthquake," a voice behind him announced.  As expected, the THRUSH had followed him.

 

                "Hello, Hank," Illya said, pulling off his sunglasses. "How's life?"

 

                 "Fine, no thanks to you.  I spent four months in that lousy hospital.  I lost my gall bladder because of you."

 

                 "You should have taken better care of yourself.  You would have healed faster."  Illya balanced himself on his feet, ready to move in any direction at the impending attack.

 

                 "No, you should have taken the time to do it right." Hank pulled something from his pocket and clicked it open. "Recognize this?  You left it stuck between my ribs."

 

                 "I'm always losing things like that."

 

                 "Well, I've come to return it to you.  In fact, I'm going to cut your heart out with it...if you have one."  He took a step and Illya retreated, hands up in the classic surrender posture.

 

                "Listen, Hank, since it's obvious that I'm unarmed and that you're not taking prisoners; could I have a smoke before you operate?""

 

                "Why should I do you any favors?"

 

                "No reason, really, but call it a last wish of the condemned man, that sort of nonsense, because I serious doubt both of us are walking out of here."

 

                Hank considered the request for a long moment, free hand raking back his long black hair.  "Okay, I guess so, but I pick the cigarette."

 

                "Of course."  Illya unrolled his sleeve and slowly took out the box.  He drew back to toss them and the knife came up, poised ready to be thrown.

 

                "Uh huh, slide them on the floor, Kuryakin."

 

                "Right," Illya knelt, eyes on his assailant.  He gave the pack a push, sending it on a relatively straight path across the small section of floor that separated them.

 

                Without his attention wavering, Hank bent and picked up the carton, flipping up the top with one thumb.  At the sudden gush of smoke, Illya threw himself behind the scant protection of a fallen banister, his head buried in his arms.  Hank lobbed the knife before collapsing to his knees, then to the floor, hands clawing at his throat.

 

                Illya remained motionless until the smoke had dissipated.  The last thing he needed was a lungful of cyanide gas.  When he felt it was safe, he rolled over and stood, glancing about for the knife.  Finally locating it embedded in the frame of a Tiffany stained glass window, he retrieved it and clicked it shut.  “Thanks, Hank.”

 

                Then, he bent over Hank, probing the man's neck with a stiff forefinger.  When no pulse greeted him, he rolled the man over and turned out his pockets.  A quick inspection of the wallet provided no useful information, just a few bills and credit cards. Keys, loose change, some scraps of paper were safely tucked away into Kuryakin's pocket for future study.  That done, Illya retrieved the pack of cigarettes and rolled them back up into his sleeve.

 

                He drew a shallow breath, just enough to keep himself from passing out, and propped Hank up and headed for the nearest exit.    "Should have listened to the Surgeon General, old boy." he tossed over his shoulder before darting out into the hallway.  He settled his sunglasses back in place and moved easily down the corridor towards the drone of the guide.

 

                "Sarah believed that the earthquake to be a message from the spirits that the front of the house was nearly completed, so she blocked off the front 30 rooms and started to build to the rear," the guide was saying as the blond agent rejoined his group.

 

                Napoleon was admiring a series of hand-cut, stained glass windows off to her right and Illya meandered in that direction.

 

                 "I missed you," Solo murmured softly.  "Was there trouble?"

 

                "Not anymore.  It's been taken care of."

 

                 "You smell like almonds."   Solo's nose crinkled up at the observation.

 

                "And thankfully that's all.  Hank, our tall THRUSH friend, wasn't as fortunate."

 

                "Oh?"

 

                "He opened up my pack of cigarettes.  Killing habit, smoking."

 

                "Very.  What about his partner?"

 

                "I think we should have a little chat with her. However, that might be a bit awkward now.  We'll have to catch up with her in the gift shop."

 

                "Too late, she's vanished just after you did.  Probably went off looking for Hank."

 

                "We'll complete the tour and hang around for a bit to see if she comes out with any of the other groups."  Solo moved on to trail behind their tour.  "By the way, did you know this place had 24,000 square feet, 10,000 windows...?”

 

                "...47 fireplaces, 40 staircases, 40 bedrooms, 13 bathrooms, 6 kitchens, 3 elevators and one shower, yes I know."

 

                "How did you...?"

 

                "Read it in the gift shop."

 

                 "Oh."

 

                They returned to the car and began to wait...and wait. By the time 7:30 had rolled around, most of the employees had left and the parking lot was empty except for their car.

 

                "Napoleon, this is hopeless.  Either she's flown back to the coop or she's hiding out in there."

 

                "Well, we could force our way in there and look for her, but that could be deadly."  Napoleon patted his hair into place and straightened his tie.  "Or, we could wait a while longer or, and this gets my vote, we could go find some dinner."

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

                Napoleon Solo sipped his wine and watched a plane approach for landing not very far from his window.  He had to admit that the 94th Aero Squadron was one of the stranger restaurants he'd been in.  The whole place was done up as a French farmhouse during World War II.  The walls were sand bagged, authentic World War I & II mementos were scattered about, old war movies played in the bar.  It all reminded him of stories his father had told him.  However, the food was excellent and plentiful, the white wine properly chilled and the waiters prompt and courteous.

 

                He let his attention wander to his blond partner and scrutinized him for a long moment.  Back to his normal attire, Illya appeared calm, relaxed, but Solo guessed that only now was he coming to terms with the death he'd caused this afternoon.  Kuryakin had drunk his cocktail and first glass of wine faster than normal, but Napoleon knew all too well the response he'd get if he pried.  Illya had to deal with things in his own way and Solo didn't understand what exactly that was, but it worked for him and that was all that really mattered.

 

                "It's strange," Illya muttered into his wine glass, half to himself, half to no one in general.

 

                "What is, old friend?"  Solo sat up, leaning towards him.

 

                 "In World War II, we were allies united upon a common front.  By Korea, we were sworn enemies.  It doesn't take long, does it?"

 

                "Not when nations and the belief of what is right and wrong is involved, not that that mattered so much in the thick of the fight.  When you come right down to it, THRUSH and UNCLE aren't that different."

 

                "No, I suppose not."   He took a long drink of wine.  “Why do you suppose they were there today?”

 

                “Don’t know.  I couldn’t imagine THRUSH using such a public place for a satrapy. Maybe they were just taking a tour – luck of the draw that we would run into them.  Or maybe they were tailing us.”

 

                “Impossible, Hank was mad enough to have not waited.  Barely five minutes passed between when he thumbed me…”

 

                “Fingered,” Solo corrected, absentmindedly.

 

                “Whatever.  He wasn’t about to lose his chance at revenge.”  Illya grunted and twisted in his chair.  "What is stabbing...?"  He dug into a pocket and pulled out a handful of miscellaneous objects.

 

                 "You pilfered from the THRUSH?" Solo asked, setting down his glass.

 

                "Yes, but there's really not that much here.  A few pieces of paper, some coins and this monster."  Illya passed the key over to Solo.

 

                He held the warm brass key closer to the lantern and squinted, "N.P.S. #1058.  Any ideas?"

 

                 "Not really.  You'd probably need a dictionary of acronyms to figure that out."

 

                "Library would have one."

 

                "It's closed."

 

                "But it'll be open tomorrow."  Solo dropped the key into the breast pocket of his jacket for safe keeping. "We'd better finish up now.  We've got a long drive ahead of us."

 

 

 

                Tory Cerino wiped the sweat from his face and wearily sunk into the rattan chair.  The heat was killing him; he couldn't sleep, eat, nothing but drink and it was all the fault of Solo and Kuryakin.

 

                He picked up a pencil and snapped it in half.  The gesture didn't make him feel any cooler, but it helped restore his good-nature, especially when he pretended it was one of Solo's fingers or, even better, Kuryakin's scrawny neck.

 

                "Anybody I know?"  Nathan Barre poked his head around the corner of Cerino's cubicle.  "Don't tell me you've already heard the news."

 

                "Okay, I haven't already heard the news.  What news?" Tory tossed the stubs towards a nearby container.

 

                "Guy by the name of Hank Simms was found dead."

 

                "So?  It happens."

 

                "But his partner said the last person with him was one, Illya Kuryakin."

 

                "Mother love a rubber duck!  Why doesn't someone get rid of those guys?"

 

                "From what I understand, they're part cat – they just won’t die, more lives than they know what to do with.  But wait, I haven't finished.  When she finally found him, he’d been picked clean. Beforehand, he had a key."

 

                "Not 'the' key…not ‘the’ key, please, please, pleased, please, tell me it wasn’t that key…"

 

                "They were meeting for the courier at Winchester Mystery House after we shut down the San Jose plant.  How Solo and Kuryakin found out is beyond us."

 

                Tory's head sunk to his arms and his shoulder shook. Barre had to lean close to hear the softly muttered, "Kill them.  I don't care if it takes every man we've got.  Kill them.  I want them dead, fini, kaput, extinct, defunct.  Do you understand me?"

 

                 "You're coming in clear as a bell, oh Disillusioned One."

 

 

                Napoleon Solo rolled over in bed and wondered what woke him.  He lay quietly for a moment, listening to the noises of the city beyond the window.  Then he saw the silhouette against the curtains - someone was standing outside on the fire escape and there appeared to be a gun in his hand.

 

                Napoleon was well aware that a sudden movement might warn his assailant and possibly force his hand and he wondered how best to wake his partner.  Illya was a normally light sleeper, so it shouldn't be too big a task.  Finally, Solo rolled over and draped an arm and leg over his partner.

 

                At first there was nothing and then Solo perceived a slight stiffen beneath his arm.  The voice that followed was cold and threatening.

 

                “Napoleon, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you have to the count of three to move back onto your own side of the bed.  One…”

 

                “Illya, listen to me, we have company," Solo said softly.  "Looks like a bogey on the fire escape."

 

                "Apparently we are on to something."  Illya's response was equally quiet, but startlingly sleepless as the Russian instantly came awake.  "What should we do?"

 

                "At the moment, nothing.  I want to be sure of the intent before I shoot."

 

                Illya, on his stomach, turned his head, a slow sleeper's movement, so that he could see the window. "Looks like he's packing."

 

                "You have something?"

 

                 "Of course."  Illya's hand grasped the cool metal of the P-38's butt that rested beneath his pillow

 

                "I think your side would be good."  Solo prepared himself for the movement.  “I’m going to lift my arm and leg enough for you to slide out

 

                "I'll cover you."

 

                Kuryakin slid easily from the bed, hands braced upon the mattress for a better aim and Solo followed a scant second later.

 

                For five long minutes, they crouched there, waiting, ready for attack that never came.  The silhouette apparently decided they were more than he could handle and moved on.

 

                "What was that?"  Illya asked as he stood, tugging his pajama bottoms back into place, "a yellow-bellied THRUSH?  I didn’t know such a thing existed.  I figured it for his partner or a friend."

 

                Solo took his weapon and went to the window. Using its barrel, he pushed aside the curtain and carefully peeked around the edge.

 

     There was the figure, poised, half in and half out of another room.

 

                "Illya, call the front desk and tell them I think they have a burglary in progress in the next room."  Napoleon lowered the gun and trudged back to bed.  "This job is beginning to get to me."

 

                 "Not as much as that robber's is about to get to him," Illya said, cradling the phone's receiver.

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

                The two UNCLE agents sat huddled over a book at the tiny table.  No one seemed to be paying them the least bit of attention, although Solo still wasn't sure that was really the case.  Ever since the previous night's incident, he felt as though he was being watched - and after having been an agent for as long as he had, it paid to listen to one's instincts.

 

                 "Here we go," Illya said, running his finger down the list.  "NOW, NPN, NPS, National Park Service...National Park Service?"

 

                "Guess we call them and see if they're missing a key, or at least if they know where this one leads."  Solo stood to leave, but the Russian was unmoving.  "Illya, what's wrong?"

 

                "UMW, UN, UNCL...nothing, just checking."  He closed the book, while smiling at his partner.  "Sometimes, validation is nice."

 

                Solo shook his head and walked slowly to the front doors as Illya returned the volume of acronyms to the reference librarian.  He watched the rain and traffic for a long minute, not expecting anything, but making sure all the same.

 

                "All set?"  Kuryakin appeared beside him.  "There's a phone down on the corner.  We should be able to call from there."

 

                "Fine," Solo murmured, unmoving.

 

                "Napoleon, are you still on edge?"

 

                "Yup, and I don't know why.  I've got a little bell right here," he pointed to the back of his head, "going off like mad."

 

                He led the way out of the library, pulling up his collar against the cold, wet wind and stopped to look for a phone booth.  "There it is," he pointed, "but it appears to be busy."

 

                "How about that one?"  A second booth across the street stood empty, ready for a paying customer.

 

                "Lead on, McDuff."  Solo glanced to make certain the light was with them and they began to cross.  From nowhere, a bus appeared, careening, going much too fast for the rainy conditions.  If Solo hadn't reacted as fast as he did, it would have caught Illya, possibly both of them.  His sudden jerk pulled Kuryakin off his feet, stumbling back into Solo.

 

                 Illya righted himself and took several deep breaths shaken by the close call.  The bus, for its part, continued its wild path down the street, amid the blare of protesting horns.

 

                 "You okay, Mister?" asked a street vendor as they reached the sidewalk.

 

                "I think so, thank you."  Illya straightened his jacket and looked around.  "Are they always that crazy?"

 

                 "The buses?  Not usually, but you know, I don't think that was one of ours.  Looked a lot like one, but the markings weren't quite right.  After selling papers at this corner for fourteen years, you get to know what city buses look like."

 

                 "Thank you for that information," Solo patted Illya's shoulder.  "We should make that call now."  They walked off and Solo waved back at the vendor.

 

                "That was interesting," he commented, reaching for the phone book.  "How much you want to bet that our other agent was run down by the same type of bus."

 

                Illya turned his back against the wind and rain while Solo thumbed through the phone book.

 

                "Ah, Illya, do you have any money?"  Napoleon patted his pockets in apparent dejection.  "Preferably American currency.  I'm not jamming another machine with drachmas, pesos, or bhats."

 

                "It's not my fault I hadn't gotten down to the currency exchange.  Besides, you should have looked at it first," Illya muttered, pulling out a handful of change and passing over the required coins after a moment’s search.

 

                "Thank you," Solo retorted coldly, disappearing back into the relative warmth and comfort of the booth and began to dial.

 

                Illya was just about to tell Solo he'd wait for him in the car when the agent emerged, a smile on his face, a bounce in his step.

 

                "Well?"

 

                 "The Park Service was quite startled that we had this key to begin with and asked all sorts of unnecessary questions, but eventually they saw it our way.  To make a long story short..."

 

                 "Too late," Illya interrupted, pulling his jacket tighter against a gust of bone-chilling wind.

 

                 "...it goes to an iron gate out at Gunning Placement #6."

 

                "I shudder to ask the next question.  Where might this be located?  Anywhere on this coast or are we in for another cross country trip?"

 

                 "My eternal pessimist," Solo said, attempting to smooth his hair into place.  "Of course it's on this coast.  In fact, it's right across the Bay."

 

 

 

                Napoleon skillfully maneuvered their car down the narrow road, ever on the lookout for more problems.  They weren't being followed, as far as he could tell.  Perhaps the incident earlier had just been coincidence.

 

                "So tell me about these gunning placements," Illya Kuryakin prompted, staring out at the passing scenery.    The morning’s rain has passed and sunlight played tag with clouds as they raced across the sky. 

 

 

                "Back in World War II, the United States was worried that San Francisco might be a possible target for attack from the Japanese. These outposts were built for that reason.  All along this coastline, anywhere you see a clump of trees, there's an old battery site."

 

                "Too bad they didn't talk to local horticulturalists first."

 

                "Why?"

 

                 "They apparently planted trees that would grow fast, but aren't native to this area.  Look how they stick out. Any pilot worth his insignia would notice that.  Any more obvious and they'd have to paint bull’s-eyes and pass out maps."  Illya was not impressed with American ingenuity.

 

                Solo chuckled and pulled the car into a shaded spot. "Apparently, we aren't the only ones interested in the area," he remarked, regarding the numerous other vehicles crammed into the area.  Kids running around, families laying various items out on picnic tables, all very much the scene of serenity.

 

                "Wonder if they have any idea about the history they're sitting on." Illya climbed out and paused, trying to get his bearings. "Where is this Gunning Placement #6?"

 

                "Should be over there," Solo, still in the car, pointed in an off-handed way.  "This is certainly an unusual park, but I suppose it's much more profitable this way."  He got out and found himself alone.  Apprehension gave way to amused annoyance as he spotted a blond head entering a tunnel that was marked merely, 'No. 6'.

 

                He followed at a more leisurely pace.  If THRUSH was on to them, he wasn't in any hurry to walk into a trap.  If they weren't, which was becoming more and more unlikely, then there was no need for urgency.  He walked into the tunnel, pausing beside a rusty, but still formidable steel gate.  Obviously, they had interconnecting corridors between each installation, which made sense.  Considering the sheer size of the thing, they could probably bring whole battalions in and still not be crowded.

 

                "Hey, Napoleon, look at this," Illya waved him on, squatting beside something.

 

                As he approached, Solo saw what had captivated the younger agent.  Cut into the concrete was a sunken pit; circular pad raised slightly, heavy iron rings still in place.

 

                "The guns sat there and fired at anything hostile up to 12 miles, or so I understand," Solo said, affording it more attention than the graffiti-stained walls.  "Not that they had much to shoot at except practice targets.  What we want is back here."

 

                "Right," Illya mumbled eyes still on the pad, mind obviously elsewhere.  He joined Solo and peered down into the corridor.  "Sure is dark in there."

 

                "Ah, but you brought a flashlight."  Solo dug into his pocket for the key.  He undid the padlock and dragged the gate back just enough to allow him to squeeze in, but he stepped aside and gestured.

 

                "After you, my dear Mr. Kuryakin."

 

                "No, no, you go first."  Illya gestured him onward. "After all, you are the senior agent and," he observed, handing him a small black object, "you do have the flashlight."

 

                They crept into the tunnel together, stepping over the trash and rubble the beam picked out.  An uneasy feeling washed over Solo and he stopped, directing the light in each direction.  Behind them, they could still hear the kids shouting and laughing, a reassuring sound in this eerie darkness.

 

                "There are rooms off to either side," Solo whispered, for the sheer reason that the atmosphere demanded it.

 

                "Probably offices or storage," Illya guessed as he carefully made his way to one wall and peered inside. "Could you shine your light over here?"

 

                "Find something?"

 

                "Not much, just some old, stacked cans, a couple of pallets worth, from the looks of it."

 

                "You're kidding!"  Solo joined him and together they moved further into the room.  "They must be storing the tainted stuff here and preparing to flood the market with the regular soda."

 

                "Once we build up enough of a following that isn't based on the newness of the product, we will introduce the contaminated soda and San Francisco will be brought to its knees."  A third voice echoed within the small chamber and both men went for their guns while trying to locate its source.  "Now, say good-bye, UNCLEs."

 

                At the gun retort, Solo dropped the flashlight and himself to the floor, but too late.  He felt a blazing stab in a shoulder and he involuntarily gasped.

 

                "Napol...?"  A second shot cut Illya off and down, from Solo's guess at the grunt that followed, but he couldn't see anything.  He struggled to draw a breath, but his lungs were fighting him. His head sunk to the floor and he lost consciousness.

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

 

                Napoleon Solo was hot, very hot.  Well, he decided, if I'm dead and hot, we all know where the famous N. Solo ended up.  Somehow, he had hoped for better.  There were voices murmuring.  'Death', one mentioned, 'our drugs on immunity systems.'  This made no sense, Solo thought, and then he heard the birds chirping and the chattering of monkeys.

 

                Birds?  Monkeys?   In Hell?  He forced open a sticky eye and squinted at his surroundings.  THRUSH Hell, that is, he revised his thoughts.

 

                He was tied spread-eagle to a metal-frame bed, a dull throb behind his eyes and an ache in his shoulder announcing the effects of a THRUSH mercy bullet.  Slowly, Napoleon's vision cleared and he raised his head a bit to look around. Not far from him, Illya Kuryakin was in a similar situation and still out from the looks of things.  The Russian’s skin was littered with bruises and there was a dried trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth. 

 

                "Well, well, Prince Charming is with us,” Tory Cerino jumped down from the ledge he'd been perched on and walked closer to the bed.

 

                “What did you do to him,” Solo growled, struggling within his restraints.

 

                “Oh, he woke up during transport.  They didn’t have any more sleeper bullets, so they resorted to a more primitive sleep aid.  I’ll say this for your little buddy, he’s one tough cookie.

Now, if our fair Princess will join us."  He took up a bucket and dashed the contents into Kuryakin's face.  He grinned hugely back at Solo.  “Salt water,” he said.

 

                Illya came to with a sputter, jerking at his bonds in a fashion that made Solo cringe.  After a split second, he fell back with a grunt and spat out a mouthful of pink-tinged water.

 

                "Much better than a kiss, don't you think?"  Tory smiled and approached the doused Russian.  "Hello, Mr. Kuryakin, how are you?"   He spoke much louder than he needed and Illya grimaced in pain.

 

                "Fine, thank you, for being dead."  Illya glanced past him to Napoleon; relief showing briefly on his face as Solo waggled his fingers at him.

 

                "Welcome to the Funny Farm," Solo said, deadpan,

 

                "So appropriately put,” Tory clapped his hands together lightly.  "You might also add your crypt away from crypt while you're at it.  You're not fooling me a second time."

 

                "Second?" Illya puzzled.  "Has there been a first?"

 

                You don't recognize me?  I am crushed."  Tory put a hand to his forehead in mock agony.  "Of course, when you met me last, I had a moustache and was several pounds heavier.  The moustache I had to shave - the tropics do that to a man.  And as for this sweatbox you stuck me in, well, I now have a 26 inch waist.  Makes it a female dog to find clothes.  Oh, and I have this."  He pulled a fake moustache from a shirt pocket and stuck it in place.  "Remember me now?"

 

                "Female dog?" Solo repeated, thinking hard, and then he sighed.  "Hello, Tory, how's tricks?"

 

                "Almost stopped dead in their tracks, thanks to you two.  I have never seen agents with better luck than the pair of you - not that it will help you now, of course."

 

                 "You said tropics.  Might I ask where in the tropics?" Napoleon used the time to shake off the effects of the sleeper bullet, trying to think.  He'd heard something as he was coming to, but couldn't quite remember.

 

                "Booming, bustling downtown Haiti, well sort of in the suburbs actually.  Scourge of anything this side of the equator.  THRUSH sent me here after that little falderal in Hong Kong.  When one is sentenced to Hell, one learns to think like the devil and that's just what I did."

 

                "That soda idea is hellish enough.  Want to let us know the rest?"

 

                "Not really.  You guys are fairly bright, as idiots go. You talk amongst yourselves and figure it out.  And enjoy the cell; it's the coolest spot in the whole compound which isn’t really saying much."  He walked to the door and looked back over his shoulder.  "I have some work to do."  With that, he exited.

 

                "Haiti?  We must have been out for quite a while." Solo studied the ceiling of their concrete room.  "Would like to know what they use in their bullets.  Ours don't last that long."

 

                "Ours usually don't need to," Illya interrupted.   He spat out another mouthful of saliva and blood and began straining at his bonds again.  Muscles corded, taut with effort, but the straps held securely.  Sweating and panting, he fell back, against the mattress.  "For a THRUSH, he's amazingly close-mouth about this contaminated soda."  He stopped when it became apparent that Solo wasn't listening.  "What's wrong?"

 

                 "Something I heard when I was coming to.  It was...um something about their drug and I think 'immunity system' was mentioned too.  And death."

 

                "Please don't tell me THRUSH has figured out how to rob the body of its immunity system with this soda."

 

                 "Okay, THRUSH hasn't figured out..."

 

                "Not funny, Napoleon.  I sincerely hope you were in the throes of a drug-induced hallucination.  Otherwise..."

 

                "We'd have no defense against them or our diseases. Illya, if this is where they're manufacturing the stuff, we've got to stop it."

 

                "Well, unless you're tied less securely than I am, neither of us is going anywhere at the moment."

 

                "Agreed.  I guess we wait.  At least, we've got a little time on our side."

 

 

 

 

                "So, how goes our sales?"  Tory pulled off his sweat stained shirt and threw it vengefully into a corner.  From his seat on a cot, Nathan Barre picked up a clipboard and flipped over a few sheets of paper.

 

                "Not bad really.  But we don't have any sizeable chunk of the market yet, so we’re still in a holding pattern for phase two."

 

                "But UNCLE doesn't know that.  They are going to attempt to pull our stuff off the shelves and come up looking like gopher guts.  They'll warn all the right people and for nothing.  What good will it do to listen to them a second or third time?  You know, the more I think about this, the more my toes curl."  Tory dug a clean shirt from his locker and shook it free from wrinkles.

 

                "Have you tried fiber?"  At Tory's sour look, he grinned.  "Sorry, I couldn't resist.  The real shame is that we couldn't have used real bullets on those two. At least we got some good licks in with Blondie."

 

                "I guess their brains are worth it, especially Solo's. God only knows what's crawling around in Kuryakin's skull.  I'm more worried about holding on to them.  Together or apart, they are just as worrisome.  They are two of the slipperiest fish I've ever caught."

 

                 "I'm sure you'll think of something."  Barre held up a glass of tepid water and saluted him.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

                Napoleon's head came up with a jerk as their cell door opened and Tory Cerino stepped in, slapping his hands together with a relish that made Solo's stomach flop.  Illya merely regarded the man quietly.

 

                "Howareya, howareya, howareya?"  Tory crossed the space with three strides.

 

                "Wonderful, apart from some numbness," Solo said calmly.

 

                "Well, we're gonna take care of that right now." Cerino snapped his fingers and a guard entered, taking out a knife and moving to Solo's side.  With one deft movement, Napoleon's arms were free, then his legs.  “Not the Russian, my friend,” Tory said to the guard.  “Let’s leave him where he is for the time being.”

 

                "I was wrong, Illya. They're not numb," Napoleon corrected, as he struggled into a sitting position with Tory's help. He eased his limbs into their first changed position in hours, perhaps days and winced at the aches.

 

                "We have been racking our brains trying to decide what to do with the pair of you while the Big Boys fly in.  THRUSH is sending a special envoy for you to take you back for a friendly question and answer session with the Powers That Be.  However, we've got to keep you, unfortunately, alive until then."  Tory patted Solo on the shoulder and rose, pacing the small room.  "Now, Mr. Solo, I want you to promise me that you will behave yourself.  Any trouble and I will be forced to sever your partner's Achilles tendon."  The guard walked to the Russian’s cot and stood, ready for the command.

 

                "You said..."

 

                "I didn't say anything about being fully mobile.  As long as your mouths work, THRUSH will be more than happy with what I do."

 

                "That's so comforting," Illya muttered.

 

                "I thought so, now on your feet, Mr. Solo.  You're due for a change of clothes."

 

                Obediently, Solo allowed himself to be led to a smaller room and given poplin linen shirt and pants.  His suits, shoes, even underwear were exchanged for THRUSH-issue items.

 

                “Now for a little examination, Mr. Solo as we have to be sure you aren’t hiding anything.”  Tory snapped his fingers and two more guards moved in to begin a very thorough, less than comfortable search.

 

Finally he was ushered into a well-stocked lab and past cages with monkeys, some agitated, some huddling in corners, as much a prisoner as he was.  Guards were stationed every few feet, none within easy reach.  Finally they halted before a large concrete and glass room and he was roughly pushed inside.  Still mindful of the threat against his partner, he checked his impulse to rush the door and attempt an escape.

 

                "Sorry if the guys were a bit rough, Mr. Solo, but they have so few hobbies here.  And that search should take care of any little devices we might have missed the first time around and render you fairly harmless.  One down, one to go – ta!”

 

                “Cerino,” Solo shouted, his voice muffled by the thick glass.  When it became apparent that he was being ignored, Napoleon sat down upon a narrow cot and studied the room instead.  There was a second cot against the opposite wall and that was it, no tables, chairs, toilet, nothing.  Interested, he lifted a corner of the straw-filled mattress and ran a hand over the hard solid piece of metal – nothing that could be pulled loose and fashioned into a weapon.  The cot in turn was welded to the floor.  The front was entirely glass, double paned, bullet proof and pretty much everything else proofed as well, Solo decided.  There were no facilities, not even a pail that could be used as an improvised weapon.   He had to admit that this was a pretty escape proof cell.

 

                The time crawled slowly onward.  He paced, he laid down, he sat, he stood up and resumed pacing.  Each minute felt like an hour until his attention was drawn by movement outside his glass cell.  Two guards were half dragging, half-carrying his partner.  Illya began struggling with them, as if suddenly having regain consciousness and the ensuing break out of activity resulted in his partner being tossed rather violently into a table, followed by a rifle but to his kidneys.  The Russian went completely to the floor and Solo pounded his fist against the glass.

 

                Tory grinned and aimed a finger at him.  Napoleon strained to hear the words through the glass, but then the door was opened and guns aimed at his midsection.  Tory stepped around the back of them and grinned.  “There we are all squeaky clean and ready to hunt bear.”  His gun never wavered off Solo as Kuryakin was hauled over to the second cot and unceremoniously dropped onto it, eliciting a groan from the man as he landed.

 

“Feel free to talk amongst yourselves,” Cerino said, with a chuckle.  “I’ve got work to do. We were going to put gorillas in here, but you'll do for the moment.  I do hope you're not shy about anything.  I'll be back later to check on you."  He clamped the door shut and walked away.

 

Immediately, Solo was at his partner’s side, kneeling by the cot, his hand on the Russian’s trembling shoulder.  “Illya, they’ve gone. Are you badly hurt?”

 

“Not as badly as I plan to hurt that little SOB when I get my hands on him.”  The Russian trembled from repressed anger, not pain and Solo was relieved to see anger snapping in the those blue eyes.  Nothing was quite as dangerous as Kuryakin mad.   Illya rolled over and nearly off the cot before Solo stopped him.  “Why in God’s green earth they’d think UNCLE would hide things where they looked is beyond me.  I’m flexible, but I’m not double jointed.”

 

Illya got stiffly to his feet and walked over to the glass.  He thunked a knuckle against it, but it elicited no response from the guard.

 

“He knows we can’t break through it – even if we had something to throw against it,” 

 

"Well, Ollie, this is another fine mess."  Napoleon tilted his head back to rest against a convenient wall.

 

                "I've always wondered what it felt like to be a pigeon under glass."  Kuryakin held his palm up to the steady flow of cool air coming in from a vent.

 

                "Pheasant, Illya."

 

                "Whatever, I just hope no joker turns off our air. Asphyxiation is not the way I want to go."

 

                "I'd prefer not to go at all," Solo murmured, looking about at their small cubicle.  "At least we're soundproof, unless someone out there can read lips," he sighed, then continued.  "How thick do you suppose these walls are?"

 

                "Don't know, about an inch or so.  Why?"

 

                "I've got a glass cutter they missed."

 

                "I and my Achilles tendon beg you to reconsider and be patient for while.  They are expecting us to try something soon, but, from what I deduce while being manhandled is that the THRUSH envoys won't be coming in for a few days yet.  Otherwise, they would have left us where we were."

 

                "So?" Solo asked, suspiciously.

 

                "I'd like to have an alternative if my original plan and these chemicals don't work."  Illya partially revealed several test tubes hidden in a pant's pocket.  "That was why I let guards knock me over that table.”

 

                "Illya, you never cease to amaze me.  I didn't know you were a pickpocket to boot."

 

                 The Russian gave him a sly smile.  "One never knows what might come in handy where.  Now, I think it's time we watch.  Since I can read lips, this might just work in our favor.

 

Three days passed, crawling by, time broken only by the arrival of their meals through a small slot.  They were taken out, one at a time, to use the toilet and showers, always under heavy guard.  Both men remained on their best behavior, apparently resigned to their fate.

 

                "Are you ready to give this a try tonight?"  Illya looked up from his plastic food tray.  "If I have to eat any more of this reconstituted stuff, I am going to defect."

 

                "Are you going to burn your way out?"

 

                "Nope, these aren’t to get us out, but instead to use once we get out.”  Illya chewed on his bottom lip   “I'm aiming for that motor.  We have a guard change in two hours, which means we will be left unobserved for almost three minutes.  By stuffing the vent shaft with our mattresses, that should be enough to overload the motor enough to make it burn out."

 

                "That motor?"  Solo looked over at their only supply of oxygen.  “Seems a bit iffy.  What if they decide to leave us here?”

 

                “THRUSH Central would not be happy, but the couriers are coming in tonight for you, so one way or the other, our hand is forced.”

 

                “What about you?”

 

                “Apparently, they have decided to take the testing into the next phase and I am to be a test subject.  Frankly, I’d rather not hang around for that.”

 

                “Have you figured out exactly what’s being tested?”

 

                "Close as I can figure, this chemical kills off the white blood cells and the body is left defenseless against any sort of disease.  They then plan to hold the populace ransom by the threat of introducing a simple virus into the populace.”

 

                “Transmission?”

 

                “Fluids, in any other state, it’s inert.  And it’s just not the soda.  Once that chemical gets into the blood stream, it can be passed by blood, semen, even saliva.” 

 

                “No one would be safe.” 

 

                “Exactly.”

 

                “Then this stops here and now.”

 

                “So that begs the question, Mr. Solo.  Just exactly how long can you hold your breath?”

 

 

                     

                The cry of 'Fire in the lab!' brought Tory out of an otherwise peaceful sleep.  He rose, slapping Nathan's leg as he passed the tall man's cot.

 

                "C'mon, we've got an emergency."  He didn't wait for the man, but grabbed a shirt and ran out.

 

                The lab was billowing with smoke as he arrived, the culprit an overloaded motor.  From within the glass booth, both UNCLE agents were slumped to the floor, obviously in the advanced stages of oxygen deprivation.

 

                "Forget that!  Get the prisoners out of there!  I can’t hand dead men over." Tory ordered to the men who were presently dousing the motor.

 

                Immediately, all attention was diverted and the pair of semi-conscious agents were helped, coughing, from their cell.  Both were limp, a bit grey and seemingly helpless.  At least, until Solo yanked his arms together, sending his rescuers into one another with a dull thud.

 

                Illya, as if on cue, spun, dashing the contents of two test tubes into the faces of closest guards.

 

                Because of this sudden turn of events, the still smoking, still-overloaded motor was abandoned and the mounting pressure went unnoticed as THRUSH and UNCLE agents exchanged blows.  At least that was the case until the motor sputtered, coughed and suddenly exploded, showering the room with bit of metal shards.  The blast shattered the glass fronts of the cages.

 

                The explosion knocked Illya into Solo's arms, but Kuryakin didn't stop there, but dragged himself and his partner to the floor, below the rain of glass and metal.

 

                Monkeys, free and wild with fear, raced through the lab, sending glassware and their contents over in their mad dash for escape, THRUSH guard, hot on their heels.

 

                Illya got to his feet and looked around through the fumes and fire.  Solo, staggering, but standing and as exhausted as his partner, gestured wildly.

 

                 "Let's follow their example and get out of here."

 

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

 

                Napoleon glanced up from the mass of paperwork that swarmed over his desktop like a mass of   bees and grinned as his partner approached him.

 

                 "Hello, Napoleon, I thought you could use a break."  He handed Solo a cup of coffee and brushed his hair back from his forehead and off the bandage he wore there, one last souvenir he’d picked up from the lab.  "How goes it?"

 

                "Thanks.  I'll never understand how so much paperwork can pile up on my desk so fast."

 

                 "Easy, everyone uses it for their own personal dumping ground.  It’s an unspoken rule here.  Find a field agent who’s gone and figure out how to get your work reassigned to him."  Illya sunk into a chair and sipped carefully from his cup.  After a long moment, he spoke, his voice soft.  "I've been wondering about something, Napoleon."

 

                 "What?"

 

                "Well, all those monkeys escaped from that lab and they were infected with that chemical."

 

                "They're probably all dead by now, especially in a tropical situation.  You know how germs love to flourish in those conditions."

 

                "That's what bothers me.  What if they didn't?  What if they bit someone...?”  Illya trailed off, then resumed. "Could be one helluva an epidemic and we'd have started it."

 

                "That's one way of looking at it.  We also saved a lot of people by burning that lab and rounding up all the THRUSH."

 

                "I suppose.  What will they do with Cerino?"

 

                "Not much, I suspect.  He's not high up enough to trade for someone or have any real secrets himself.  I guess it's Mr. Waverly's headache."  Solo picked up his mug and then put it down without drinking.  "What is all of this...this stuff?"  He spread sheets of paper out.

 

                "Looks like billing notices.  Apparently Mr. Waverly made good his threat to charge you for all that overnight service."

 

                "Of all the things..."  Solo retrieved his cup and took a healthy swig from it, only to nearly choke before swallowing the mouthful.  "What is that?"

 

                "Coke."  Illya rose to leave.  "I'm told things go better with it."  Then he slipped out before Solo, his posture threatening, could tackle him.

 

 

                                      T.H.E. E.N.D.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                  

 

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

                The man set down his can of soda and rubbed furiously at his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe what he was reading.  Shuffling through the papers before him, he turned back to the lab-coated man behind him.

 

                "Are you sure about this?"

 

                "Absolutely or I wouldn't be here if I weren't."

 

                "Hitler should have had your confidence."  Tory Cerino returned to the sheets of figures and turned one sideways. "Then and again, maybe he did and look where he ended up."

 

                "He wasn't working for THRUSH."

 

                "How do you know that?"  Tory grinned at the startled face and nodded.  "That was a joke…well, laugh."  At the half-hearted chuckle that followed, he held up his hand.  "Okay, don’t overwhelm me with your fits of hysteria.  So what are the advantages to this?"

 

                "It's odorless, tasteless and colorless.  It can be put into anything without detection."

 

                 "And the results?"

 

                "It attacks the body's immune system, killing off the white blood cells.  So, while the victim has no direct effects from the additive, months later he could suddenly collapse and die from something as simple as a head cold.  We could dump it into the water supply of a city and threaten to introduce a common germ into the area if they didn't cooperate."

 

                 "Too small; I was thinking a country might be nice."  Cerino hitched himself up onto a countertop and smiled again, a long, drawn-out smile of satisfaction. "This is just what I need to get back into THRUSH's good graces and out of this damned jungle.  I wasn't going to do this, but."  He reached into a pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar.  "You've done well, Watson.  Now I won't have to kill you."  At the fearful look that followed, he chuckled and began to eat the partially-melted chocolate. "Just a joke, old man."  He lifted the paper and nodded. "This is something I really like..."

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

                Napoleon Solo grunted softly at the pressure being exerted against his back, digging into firm muscles, forcing them into an unaccustomed relaxation.  Then he smiled at the soft touch of lips that followed.

 

                "Oh, Marcie, where did you learn to do that?"

 

                "Used to date a Swede and he loved rubdowns."  The woman's long hair brushed against him and Solo rolled over to pull her down to him.

 

                "Me, too, but do you know what I like even more?"  He leaned over to whisper in her ear, but a 'beep-beep' interrupted him.

 

                "Oh, Napoleon you promised," Marcie moaned, flopping back.  "I thought you were off-duty tonight."

 

                "The only time I'm off-duty is when I'm unconscious or flat on my back in the hospital."  With a sigh, he reached for the instrument.

 

 

 

                Illya Kuryakin bit his lip and thought furiously. There had to be a way out...somehow.  He couldn't surrender now, not when he was so close and had so much to lose.

 

                He fumbled with the squares, arranging them again and again, his mind racing.

 

                "Move," a voice threatened.

 

                "I'm trying to," he protested.  "Stop pushing me. I mean, literally stop pushing me.  You already have most of the bed."  His concentration was interrupted by the phone and he smiled.  "Saved by the bell."  He looked around.  "Wherever that might be."

 

                "If you can’t find it, it doesn’t count."

 

                Illya sighed and rose from the bed, remembering to catch a wine glass before it tipped over.  "And don't look at my letters."

 

                He eventually located the phone beneath a pile of clothes next to the bed and lifted the receiver to his ear.  "Kuryakin."  He moaned at the sound of his partner's voice.  "Hello, Napoleon.  Please tell me you’re just calling to be sociable."

 

                The woman on the bed shook her head.  "Good-bye, Napoleon."

 

                Illya hushed her with his hand.  "What, Napoleon?  He says, hello, Chris.  Oh, nothing, just a quiet evening at home…more or less."  He glanced over at his companion, a lovely young and very creative lab tech who was currently wearing most of his clothes.  He'd be damned if he'd tell Solo he was in the middle of a game of strip Scrabble and literally having his pants beaten off him. One more game and he'd be down to his boyish charm and nothing else.  His partner's voice drew his attention back to the phone and he nodded.  "What? Yes, every word, Napoleon.  I'll be there."  He cradled the phone and bent to retrieve his shoes.

 

                "Sorry, Chris, duty calls.  Mr. Waverly wants me."

 

                "He's not the only one.  You sure you have to leave right now?  Right-this-very-minute now?"  Reluctantly, she pulled off his shirt and passed it over. “We don’t even have time for a quickie…a really fast quickie?”

 

                "As much as that breaks my heart, no."  The exuberant, playful quality of moments ago was replaced by a cold and detached façade.  He took the shirt and shouldered into it, holding out a hand as soon as it cleared the sleeve.  "My tie?"

 

                A heavy sigh preceded its return.  "You want your gun, too, no doubt?"

 

                "Wouldn't be a well-dressed spy without it."

 

                "Got news for you, Kuryakin, you'd have to go some even with it."  Chris sat up, drawing up her knees to support her chin.  “Whatever names they might call you around HQ, fashion horse isn’t one of them.”

 

                “How reassuring,” Illya leaned over to kiss her briefly, but thoroughly.  "I'll be back as soon as I can."

 

                "Last time I heard that, you were gone for six weeks and came up with a broken leg."

 

                “But I came back,” he pointed out.   “Then I look forward to playing the reluctant patient and the winsome, alluring, but naughty nurse.” Illya kissed her again and grabbed up his jacket.  Before heading out the door, he turned back to say, "And don't look at my letters."

 

 

                Illya pocketed his keys as he walked down the silent, bare halls of U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters.  At times like this, it almost seemed peaceful here, as if the place was asleep.  If only the streets of New York City could make the same claim.  It never ceased to amaze him how the traffic seemed to know when you were in a hurry and planned delays accordingly.

 

                He paused outside of Waverly's office for a brief second to make sure he was in a semblance of order before entering.

 

                His partner, Napoleon Solo, was already seated at the circular table and nodded his welcome.  In his hand he had a crumpled can of soda which struck Kuryakin as odd, for Solo was not the soft drink type.  He sat and folded his hands before him without comment.  Waverly, busy with the task of filling his pipe, hadn't even bothered to look up, but Illya knew the man was aware of his presence.

 

                "So good of you to join us, Mr. Kuryakin."  The words that finally came were dry, the tone disciplinary.

 

                "Yes, Sir."  Illya looked down at his hands, experience telling him not to argue.  To have gotten here any faster, he'd have needed something other than a car.  "Napoleon said something was up."

 

                "Yes, indeed, Mr. Kuryakin, something is.  What, however, remains to be seen."  Waverly spun the table top until the can of soda was before him.  "Give me your opinion on this."

 

                Illya hefted the container, not surprised to find it empty.  Obviously, the labs had gotten to it before him.  This also meant there was something that deemed noting on the can itself, not just the contents.

 

                "What do you see?"  Waverly watched as the Russian dug a pair of glasses from a jacket pocket and put them on.

 

                Kuryakin turned the object over and over in his hands.  The name was not familiar to him, but, like Napoleon, he didn't drink much soda.  "Initially, there’s not much worth noting.  The can itself looks crushed, from the sides, not top to bottom, which would indicated that it was squeezed rather than collapsed.  It was packed in San Jose and stored in San Francisco.  It has the usual levels of calories, sodium, et cetera..."  Then he trailed off as he tipped the can away from him.  Scratched on the bottom were the words, 'Must send to UNCLE -NY ASAP' with a series of scrapes beside it.  Illya scowled and studied the label again.  Above the name, 'Drink Me', someone had etched faintly into the metal, 'Don't'.

 

                "What does this all mean, Sir?"  Napoleon was confused and getting more so with each passing minute.  His partner hadn't uncovered anything he'd missed.

 

                "This was found with the remains of Vincent Copella, a field agent out of Lansing.  He was in San Francisco vacationing when he stepped out in front of a city bus."

 

                "Suicide," Solo asked, sitting forward, brow furrowed, concern marring the handsome features.  He took it personally when an agent died, even when it was an unfamiliar agent like Copella.

 

                “Why travel halfway across the country to kill yourself, Napoleon, when you carry a gun on a daily basis?  Besides, if he’d had suicidal tendencies, he’d have never been assigned as a field agent.”

 

                “Murder then?”

 

                "The driver had a spotless record. From extensive investigation by both UNCLE and the bus line, it would appear to have been a simple accident.  Mr. Copella was so engrossed in that can that he stepped out in front of the bus and never saw it.  It was still clutched in his hand when he was found."

 

                "Nothing is simple when you're an UNCLE agent," Illya interrupted, still toying with the can.  "What about this then?"

 

                "Obviously, he had intended to send it along to us, but never got the chance. Another argument against suicide.  The unusual part about it is that he had several cans of this…beverage in his possession when he was struck down."  Waverly lifted a report and shuffled through the paper inside.  "When the lab analyzed on them, this is what they came up with."  He immediately passed the folder to Kuryakin bypassing Solo. The senior officer knew that the papers inside would be within his partner’s scope of experience and he simply sat back to await his turn.

 

                Illya repositioned his glasses and glanced through the first few papers swiftly. "They were contaminated?"

 

                "With that chemical."

 

                "But this is harmless," Illya protested almost instantly.  "These are common amino acid chains, nothing deadly.  I don't understand."  He handed the report to Solo.

 

                "Neither do we, but we have reason to believe that THRUSH is somehow involved."  Mr. Waverly touched a match to the contents of his pipe and began to puff.

 

                "Where they are concerned, we can't afford not to understand."  Napoleon looked up from the lab report.  He didn’t try to make sense of the jumble of letters and numbers upon the pages or even to study the charts with their various spikes and valleys.  He looked simply to retain any information that might be necessary in the future. “But there are no direct indications…”  Solo started.  Illya had abandoned the lab report for the can, holding it up again.

 

                “Napoleon…” Illya interrupted softly.

 

                “If all indications are that it was…”

 

                “Napoleon,” the Russian said again, but that agent merely flicked a glance in his direction and then back to Waverly.

 

                “As upset as I am...”  Shaking his head, Illya reached out and grabbed Solo’s head at the base of his neck, forcing the man to look at him and the can in his hand.  Catching the light just right, was looked like a mass of random scratches suddenly coalesced into a familiar bird like shape.

 

                   "And that is why you and Mr. Kuryakin are booked on the next flight to California.  You will investigate Mr. Copella’s death and ascertain whether or not THRUSH might have had a hand in it, as well as any possible connections between them and the drink."  Tickets were placed on the table and rotated into place.  "Please be there on time, Mr. Kuryakin."

 

                "Yes, sir," they chorused together and rose.  It didn’t take a trained agent to recognize that they’d been summarily dismissed and Waverly was already focusing upon his next task at hand.

 

                The pair remained silent until they were in the relative security of the hallway, well away from Waverly's office.

 

                "Hmm, we leave at 11 o'clock.  No special UNCLE flight?"  Illya tucked the airline ticket away into a jacket pocket along with his glasses.  “Urgent, but not that urgent,” Illya muttered, his blue eyes half closed in thought.  “He must think something big is happening or he’d have sent out other agents.”  He punched the elevator button.

 

                "The Old Man doesn't think THRUSH knows we're onto them yet.  If Copella's death really was just a random accident, he may be right."

 

                "And if it wasn't?"

 

                "Then we'll just have to be careful when we take public transit."

 

                “But why assign us?  Why not assign it to someone in the SF office?  I was on a 9 a.m. to Uzbekistan in the morning. ” 

 

                “Mark is now.  I suppose he thought that we might not be as well known on that coast as the local agents will be.  It might give us a bit of an edge.”

 

                “Okay, let me pack and I’ll pick you up at 10.”

 

                “That’s cutting it a bit close, isn’t it?”

 

                “Then I’ll drive fast.”

 

                “Waverly finds out that we missed the flight because you and the utter delectable Chris were having one more rouler dans le foir and there will be hell to pay.”

 

                “Funny, Napoleon, and improperly conjugated by the way.”

 

                “I speak French from the heart and not the textbook.”   They stepped out the elevator and into the reception area of H.Q.  Solo unpinned his I.D. badge and handed it to the receptionist.  “See you at 10 and for god sakes, pace yourself.”

    

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

                Illya Kuryakin glanced around the lobby of the Stanyan Park Hotel, studying the layout, searching for possible dangers, watching for the unseen.  This was one of the city's several renovation projects:  rebuilt, remodelled, but still keeping its turn-of-the-century charm.  THRUSH certainly had no place here.  It always amazed him at just how compact everything in this city seemed.  No bit of space was left unused or ignored and when all horizontal space was used, the builders simply went vertical.

 

                He looked over at Solo, guarding the man's back out of many years of practice.  He always dreaded these assignments, preferring that THRUSH knew of their presence. This 'maybe they do, maybe they don't' situation always required a heighten sense of alertness that was difficult to maintain and easy to lose. 

 

                His eye caught by the desk clerk, who gave him a wink and a knowing nod before passing the keys over to Solo. The dark-haired agent accepted them with a polite smile and a $20 bill exchanged hands. 

 

                “I’ll have your bags sent right up, Mr. Solo.  As requested, they will be left in the hall and I shall see to it that you won’t be disturbed.”

 

                “Thank you,” He smiled that warm Solo grin and the desk clerk beamed back.  “Illya?”  He nodded towards the staircase and started to walk, Kuryakin close at his heels.

 

                "What was that all about?" Illya demanded, as soon as they made the second floor landing.

 

                "I asked for Copella's room."  Napoleon looked from the key to the posted room numbers and headed right.  "It's a single."

 

                "So?"

 

                "Illya, this is San Francisco."  He stopped as if that was enough explanation.

 

                "Napoleon, it is all very well to be cryptic on occasion and in fact, I'm fond of it myself.  This is neither the time nor the place."

 

                Solo halted before a door and opened it.  "How many years have you been in America?"

 

                "About five or so, officially."  Illya tossed his jacket onto the bed and looked about their cramped quarters.  “And a few more than that unofficially, why?”  He started to undo his tie.

 

                "Illya, we are two grown men, obviously in our prime, and there is only one bed in here."

 

                "So I noticed.  Sort of takes up just about the whole room, doesn't it?  Reminds me a little of those sleeper tubes in Tokyo.  I still don't understand."

 

                "My dear Mr. Kuryakin, San Francisco has one of the highest homosexual populations in the country.  The guy at the counter thinks we're...together."

 

                "Well, we are..."  Illya trailed off as Solo's meaning suddenly became quite clear to him. “Surely Waverly doesn’t believe all those rumors, Napoleon”

 

                “I know he doesn’t.”   Wordless, Illya snatched back up his jacket and headed for the door.

  "Where are you going?"

 

                "To the car UNCLE SF left for us while I still have enough dignity salvaged to walk through the lobby with my head up."

 

                "Good, you can check it over for bugs."  Napoleon slapped his hands together.  "I'm going to start here."

 

                "UNCLE's already gone over this room with a fine toothed comb."  Illya set the case down again.  "What do you hope to find that they didn't?"

 

                "Lab techs are very good at what they do, but they're not agents and they’re not used to having to cover their own tracks.  If Copella stumbled across something by accident, I expect to find nothing.  However..."

 

                "However, there's always that possibility."  The Russian nodded in agreement and tossed his jacket aside, the car temporarily forgotten.

 

                Systematically, they moved through the room, checking every lip, crevice, hidden spot they could locate and reach.

 

                "Hey!"  Illya sat up from his exploration of the carpet nap beneath the bed.

 

                "What?"  Solo leaned out of the bathroom. "Find something?"

 

                "Yeah, a quarter."  Illya held it up for display.  “Been there awhile too, considering the dust upon it.  The maids could spend more time vacuuming under the beds in this place.”

 

                "Now you can retire while you're still young."

 

                "And alive,” Illya added, brushing off his hands and then turning his attention to the knees of his pants.  "I think this may be pointless, Napoleon."  He tossed the coin onto the pile of debris on the bed.  “We don’t even know whether any of this even belonged to Copella.”

 

                "You may be right." 

 

                “What was he doing out here anyway, Napoleon?  He wasn’t on assignment.  I checked before leaving New York.”

 

                “Illya…again, San Francisco, single agent, bath houses…you really are dense some times.  And you call yourself a Smart Russian.”  Solo left the bathroom for the bed, poking a finger through the assortment.  "Let's see what we have.  A theater ticket stub,  Fences  not a bad show, 47 cents, a cancelled stamp, another stub, this time to the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose, a bobby pin, an earring..." He trailed off.  “Not much to work with really.”

 

                "Now what, oh Great Leader," Illya asked, hoisting himself off the floor in one easy movement.

 

                Solo checked his watch.  “It’s too late now to call, but tomorrow I'll make an appointment to see the warehouse facilities of 'Drink Me' and we can have a look around."

 

                 "Could I be the journalist this time?  I get so tired of having to be the photographer."

 

                "You look like one, Illya, my good fellow.  That's ninety percent of the game."  At the sullen face, he reached out and slapped a shoulder.  "Tell you what; I'll buy you dinner tonight."

 

                "Fine with me," Illya said and went to his suitcase to find a plastic bag.  Habit forced him to save anything they'd found in their search.

 

                "What do you feel like?"  Solo hefted the phone book and thumbed to the restaurant listings.

 

                 "Anything really, as long as it's expensive…really expensive."

 

                 "And I say thank God for per diems."  Solo flipped the pages, eyes scanning their options.  He stopped and began to grin widely.  "Here's something I think you'll like."

 

                “Why are you smiling like that, Napoleon?  That always makes me nervous when you smile like that.”

 

                “Trust me.”

 

 

 

 

                The trip to the Russian Renaissance proved to be just the ticket, at least to Solo's way of thinking.  It constantly amazed him at the change in Illya after adding just a few, well, several ounces of vodka.  He came to life, joking, smiling, yes, Solo decided, almost human.  Of course, tomorrow morning he'd be a bear to work with, but it was worth it tonight.

 

                Napoleon drove as he glanced over at his partner, who was contentedly watching out the window at the passing lights and humming.  Suddenly, he sat up and pointed.

 

                "Napoleon, look at that!"

 

                The dark-haired agent was used to his partner's outbursts, so he managed to keep from swerving into the car beside him as his arm was grabbed.

 

                "What?"  He looked in the direction of the pointing finger.

 

                "It’s a store."

 

                "Yes, I can see it’s a store, Illya.  What’s so special about it?"

 

                “Can’t you see?  Look!  Stop the car, Napoleon.”

 

                Obligingly, Solo maneuvered the car around and drove into the small area allotted for store parking, still waiting for Illya to explain why they were stopping.   The Russian, however, merely climbed out and walked rapidly into the store, leaving Solo to trail behind keeping an eye open for anything.

 

                Napoleon got as far as the magazine rack and was flipping through the latest "Playboy" when his elbow was roughly jostled, followed by, "Napoleon, come here quickly."

 

                Sighing, the dark-haired agent complied, only to be brought over to a refrigeration unit.

 

                "Yes?"

 

                 "The big poster on the front window?   Third shelf?  Tell me I've had too much to drink and I’ll blame it on the evils of vodka."

 

                "Okay, you've had too..."  A bright now-familiar can caught his attention.  "I think we're too late.  THRUSH has already moved."  He reached out and picked up a can of 'Drink Me' cola.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

    

Napoleon Solo hunched a shoulder up to keep the receiver to his ear.  "Yes, I'm still holding," he murmured tonelessly.  From the desk where he was sitting, he frowned over at his partner.

 

                The blond was stretched out on the bed, communicator in hand.  "Yes, Sir, I'm aware of the cost of shipping that package air, but seeing how THRUSH could perhaps already be carrying out its plan, we felt the cost was justified." Illya made a face at Solo.

 

                Solo returned back to his business as sound crackled in his ear.  Abruptly, the tinny music he'd been half listening to was replaced by a man's voice."  Mr. Solo?"

 

                 "Yes."  He sat up straighter.

 

                 "Douglas Appleby here.  What was my secretary telling me about your wanting to do a story on us?"

 

                "If possible, Mr. Appleby.  My paper has been amazed at how 'Drink Me Cola' has taken off, especially in the Bay area.  I'd be interested in interviewing you and some of your employees as a feature."

 

                "Wouldn't it be better to talk to the processing plant itself?  San Jose isn't that far off and you'd probably get a better story for your efforts."

 

                 Solo immediately scratched down 'San Jose' while not breaking stride.  "We are, sir, but we'd like to cover all aspects of the production from start to finish.  We've already shot footage at several local stores."

 

                "Footage?  I thought you said you were from a newspaper."

 

                "Rest assured I am, but it's amazing how many more readers you gain for each full color photo.  It's really a shame, the lack of reading that takes place these days."

 

                 "Yes, well, I suppose I could give you a tour of the place.  After 1:00 today, ok?"

 

                "Perfect.  We appreciate your cooperation, sir.  Thank you."  Solo cradled the phone and flashed a thumbs up sign at his partner.

 

                Douglas Appleby sat back and looked down at the paper in his hand, then leaned forward.  "Miss Hart, could you check on the name, Napoleon Solo, for me?  Check the UNCLE file; it should be there under 'field agents'."  He clicked the intercom off and crumpled the paper in his hand.

 

 

                "Mr. Solo?"  Napoleon looked in the direction of the sound and was greeted by the voluptuous blonde who was coming across the warehouse floor as quickly as her very tight skirt would permit.  Solo smiled at the sight and Illya frowned, first at his partner, then at the woman, then at the light meter he held.  Trust Solo to come up with something like this.

 

                "Hello."  She approached Solo and held out her hand. "I'm Susan Sondheim, Mr. Applegate's personal secretary...or is that Appleby?  I get confused.  Oh well, he was called away on a most urgent errand this afternoon."  She retrieved her hand from Solo and offered it to Kuryakin, who merely snapped forward in a quick bow.  She regarded him curiously for a moment, and then a smile returned to her face.  "Okay, then, you’re one of those weirdos.  I'm going to show you around this place."  Susan made an expansive gesture with her arms and her chest bobbed enthusiastically in response. "Isn't that exciting?"

 

                "More than you could possibly know," Kuryakin muttered softly.

 

                "Thank you, Miss Sondheim.  I'm sure it will be an experience."  Napoleon took out a note pad and nodded. "Shall we begin?"

 

                And it proved to be just that.  The tour was surface, nothing in depth that sparked either man's curiosity.  Miss Sondheim either was a genius at hiding her intelligence or was actually one step up from being a classic example of a dumb blonde.  At the moment, Solo couldn't tell which, but he did know the switch from Appleby to her as their guide wasn't accidental.  Aside from the free sample of 'Drink Me Cola', they brought nothing away from the tour with them.

 

                "What a waste," Illya plopped back onto the bed and toed off his shoes.  "Talk about your bubble-headed bleach blondes.  How could someone work for a company and not have the faintest idea what goes on there?"

 

                "There are a lot of them, Illya, my boy, even in UNCLE.  Of course, with us it’s more design than in most cases.   Many people just don't care."  Napoleon tossed the pad down on the desk top and undid his tie.  "Still, I have a feeling that that's exactly why she was picked to show us around this afternoon."

 

                "You think THRUSH is on to us?"

 

                "Possibly, and if they are, it won't take long for them to track us down."  Napoleon pulled his sample can from a pocket and tossed it to Kuryakin.  "In the meantime, we'll send this back for some testing."

 

                "Wouldn't it be a death wish to give us a can of tainted cola?"

 

                "Not if they want to get rid of us.  Now, why don't you put your shoes on and we'll go do some shopping."

 

                "Beg pardon?"  The Russian's head came up.

 

                "I want to find some more 'Drink Me Cola'.  I feel a powerful thirst coming on."

 

 

    

 

Tory Cerino pulled the fabric of his shirt away from his skin and sighed.  "I will sure be glad when THRUSH perfects that frost weapon.  I can't wait to blast this whole place."

 

                 "The environmentalists would have your ass." A voice came from a nearby cubicle Nathan Barre was a similar prisoner as Cerino.  Failed at his previous task, Barre was sent here on disciplinary action - stuck here until he got back into THRUSH's good graces or someone screwed up worse than he.  Barre continued, "How do you know about the frost machine?  That's tip-top secret."

 

                "Know about it?  Who do you think copied the stupid plans to begin with?"

 

                "Didn't know you were a second-story man."  Barre came and sat beside him.

 

                "M'not, but I was the copyboy for a while back at THRUSH Central."  Cerino closed his eyes in remembrance - the cool, dim halls, the air conditioner...ice.

 

                "After you lost that computer memory device...?"

 

                "Yeah.  Every situation has its drawbacks and advantages, although I'm having a hard time seeing the good side of this place.  Why they'd ever put a satrapy in Haiti is beyond me."

 

                "It got you to produce."

 

                "So would a good-looking, cooperative woman.  That’s another thing this place is totally lacking.  I’m so tired of dancing with Rose and her four daughters that I could scream."

 

                 "You're frustrating me again and we don't have any cold water left."  Barre grinned as he popped open a can of soda. "How is the soda invasion coming, by the way?"

 

                "Not as well as I'd like.  I'm not happy about losing that one tainted can and the fact that it's still missing doesn't help.  However, on the plus side, San Francisco is buying up the stuff by the caseful.  All we have to do is wait until the tests are finished and we can replace the good with the...heh, heh, heh, bad."  Cerino gulped his soda and suppressed a belch. "And we can get out of this hothouse and back into the real world."

 

                 "It may not be that easy," Barre interrupted.  "I didn't want to be the one to tell you this."

 

                "What?  I'm in a good mood, I won't beat you."

 

                "There seems to have been a certain N. Solo taking a tour of our SF warehouse.  Thankfully, Appleby got Susan to take them around so that problem was solved."

 

                 "What?"  The effect was immediate, then came a puzzled, "Susan?"

 

                 "Yeah, you know, ole 'the lights are on, but everyone's on vacation' Susan."

               

                 "Ah, the one with the misfiring spark plugs.  How did Solo get to San Francisco without us knowing about it? Was...shudder...Kuryakin with him?"

 

                "Don't know, the report didn't say, but I would suspect so.  Those two are inseparable."

 

                "San Francisco is the place for them."

 

                "You don't believe all those rumors, do you?"

 

                 "Believe 'em?  Hell, I started 'em.  Is all the fixed stuff still under lock and key?"

 

                "Snug as a bug in a lady's bra."

 

                "Then, let them look.  They won’t find anything."

 

 

 

                Illya Kuryakin sank deeper into the bucket seat of their rental car.  His head hurt, his feet hurt, he was not a happy spy.

 

                Napoleon Solo came out of the Express shipping office, whistling and slapping his hands together.

 

                "Sure, until Mr. Waverly sees the bill," Illya said as his partner climbed happily into the car.

 

                "It's okay, I've got it all figured out."

 

                "Good, then you can talk to Mr. Waverly tomorrow.  I intend to sleep in."

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

                "But, Sir...yes, Sir...I know it's expensive, but in lieu of the situation...yes, Sir, only one can...I understand...Solo out."

 

                Napoleon Solo set down the communicator and sighed.  Life with superiors was seldom smooth.  He picked up his coffee and settled back, sipping at the French Roast absent mindedly.

 

                "You know, Napoleon," Illya said, emerging from the shower followed by clouds of billowing steam, a towel around his neck, another around his waist.  "Something is bothering me."

 

                "Only one thing?"

 

                "No, several, now that you mention it.   I prefer things tidy."

 

                 "Unlike your apartment."  Solo moved his feet to prevent them from being dripped on.  "So, what's on your mind?"

 

                "THRUSH isn't packaging that soda here and I doubt the tampering would be handled at this end either.  That would be done during the canning process."

 

                "I agree, but we couldn't get another address from our Miss Sondheim at the local shop."

 

                "Though doubtless you tried."  Illya began to towel his hair.  "Of course, the can does say packaged in San Jose."

 

                 "It does?"  Solo sat up.

 

                "And there was that ticket for the Winchester Mystery House, also in San Jose.  Might not be connected, but then again it might.  Anyhow, I was just thinking."  He returned to the bathroom now that most of the steam had migrated out.

 

                "I really hate smart Russians," Solo murmured, displeasure clouding his features and he reached for the phone to get directions for San Jose.

 

 

 

                "And I thought it was hot in the City."  Illya pushed his sunglasses back into place with a thumb and tried the same with his hair.  Sweat had plastered it to his forehead and the wind from his open window did nothing more than make the hot air in the car even hotter.  “Is this the local joke, give the guys from out of town the car without air conditioning or are there dynamics here that I’m unaware of.”

 

                "This has nothing on a hot spell in New York."  Solo gunned the engine to shoot around a slower-moving vehicle.  “It’s not as humid here.”

 

                 "True, but it's like this all the time here."

 

                "Point taken." Solo spared him a glance before returning to the interstate traffic.  "Where's the turn off for this Mystery House?"

 

                Illya wrestled the map into position.  "Should be the next exit coming up, aptly named 'Winchester Blvd'."

 

                 "Clever."

 

                "Isn't it?  Wonder what we'll find there, if anything."

 

                "Nothing if we're lucky.  I'd like to think the stuff is just contained in San Francisco, especially since that processing plant has closed up and moved, with no forwarding address, of course."  Solo maneuvered the car onto the off-ramp and down onto the residential street.  Almost immediately, a sign heralding the Winchester Mystery House sprung into view.  "They weren't kidding when they said the next right.  It looks like we're here."

 

                 Illya pushed his glasses up onto his head and gaped, "Look at the size of that place.  What a maze!"

 

     "Just right for a THRUSH to build a nest in."  Solo parked beneath the scant shade of a palm tree and shook his head.  "Talk about your proverbial needles in haystacks."

 

                Abruptly, Illya sank down into the car seat, dropping his head onto his chest.

 

                "Illya?"  Solo reached over to grasp a forearm. "What's wrong?  Are you ill?  I told you to go easy last night."

 

                "THRUSH at 10:00 high."

 

                Solo followed the direction.  "Are you sure?"

 

                "I knifed the taller one.  Trust me, I never forget a victim."

 

                "I suppose that helps to verify our suspicions, but that's not going to make you any less obvious.  Can you do something?"

 

                "Napoleon, I am not a chameleon!"

 

                "I didn't mean that.  Brush your hair back or something like that.  They've gone in.  Come on."  Solo climbed out. "We can't afford to lose them."

 

 

                Napoleon Solo glanced through a booklet on the eccentric Sarah Winchester and the result of her monumental building feats.  One eye carefully kept track of the previously spotted enemy agents, the other for any possibly ensuing trouble.  For their part, however, the pair of THRUSH seemed blissfully unaware of the UNCLE agents' presence.  Hopefully, it would continue that way.

 

                A cough at his shoulder drew his attention.  He looked past a display of magnets and to his nearby much-altered Russian partner.

 

                Napoleon replaced the book in the rack and wandered over to him.  "I knew you had something up your sleeve...or lack thereof.  You look like a hood."

 

                 Kuryakin had abandoned his jacket, tie and shirt, wearing just his tee shirt, one sleeve rolled up and over what appeared to be a pack of cigarettes.  His hair was slicked back and a very large pair of mirrored sunglasses hid most of his upper face.

 

                "Thanks, I think.  Now, if they don't pick me out."

 

                "I seriously doubt your mother could."

 

                 "Thanks, but I wouldn't want her to."

 

                 A crackle of static interrupted him and the loudspeaker came to life.  "Tour Number 19 is ready to depart in the courtyard for their tour of the amazing Winchester Mystery House."

 

                 "That's us," Solo said, handing him a ticket.

 

                "And our THRUSH friends.  At least, we won't have any trouble keeping an eye on them."

 

                "And hopefully not vice-versa."

 

                And so the game went, through the Carriage Room, specially designed to accommodate the horse-drawn rig of reclusive Sarah Winchester, to the $25,000 Storage Room, which contained all the building supplies, Tiffany windows, moldings, and velvet wallpapers to be used at the time of Sarah's death.

 

                "Thirteen was Sarah Winchester's favorite number.  She had 13 bathrooms, which each contain 13 windows.  Her will had 13 parts..."  The guide recited easily, pointing to various spots as the need arose.  Illya was studying a staircase that led to the ceiling when a feeling of being watched came over him.

 

                He looked over, gaze locking with that of the taller, more dangerous-looking THRUSH.  The man's fist clasping and unclasping confirmed Illya's suspicion.  He'd been recognized, but it didn't appear as though the man had had time to warn his partner and Illya hoped to keep it that way.  He glanced over at an 'Employees Only' door and mentally crossed his fingers.

 

                The door was unlocked and it led into an unfinished corridor, bare beams, slats, and frayed electrical wires exposed to view.

 

                "Congratulations, you're in part of the house damaged by the 1906 Earthquake," a voice behind him announced.  As expected, the THRUSH had followed him.

 

                "Hello, Hank," Illya said, pulling off his sunglasses. "How's life?"

 

                 "Fine, no thanks to you.  I spent four months in that lousy hospital.  I lost my gall bladder because of you."

 

                 "You should have taken better care of yourself.  You would have healed faster."  Illya balanced himself on his feet, ready to move in any direction at the impending attack.

 

                 "No, you should have taken the time to do it right." Hank pulled something from his pocket and clicked it open. "Recognize this?  You left it stuck between my ribs."

 

                 "I'm always losing things like that."

 

                 "Well, I've come to return it to you.  In fact, I'm going to cut your heart out with it...if you have one."  He took a step and Illya retreated, hands up in the classic surrender posture.

 

                "Listen, Hank, since it's obvious that I'm unarmed and that you're not taking prisoners; could I have a smoke before you operate?""

 

                "Why should I do you any favors?"

 

                "No reason, really, but call it a last wish of the condemned man, that sort of nonsense, because I serious doubt both of us are walking out of here."

 

                Hank considered the request for a long moment, free hand raking back his long black hair.  "Okay, I guess so, but I pick the cigarette."

 

                "Of course."  Illya unrolled his sleeve and slowly took out the box.  He drew back to toss them and the knife came up, poised ready to be thrown.

 

                "Uh huh, slide them on the floor, Kuryakin."

 

                "Right," Illya knelt, eyes on his assailant.  He gave the pack a push, sending it on a relatively straight path across the small section of floor that separated them.

 

                Without his attention wavering, Hank bent and picked up the carton, flipping up the top with one thumb.  At the sudden gush of smoke, Illya threw himself behind the scant protection of a fallen banister, his head buried in his arms.  Hank lobbed the knife before collapsing to his knees, then to the floor, hands clawing at his throat.

 

                Illya remained motionless until the smoke had dissipated.  The last thing he needed was a lungful of cyanide gas.  When he felt it was safe, he rolled over and stood, glancing about for the knife.  Finally locating it embedded in the frame of a Tiffany stained glass window, he retrieved it and clicked it shut.  “Thanks, Hank.”

 

                Then, he bent over Hank, probing the man's neck with a stiff forefinger.  When no pulse greeted him, he rolled the man over and turned out his pockets.  A quick inspection of the wallet provided no useful information, just a few bills and credit cards. Keys, loose change, some scraps of paper were safely tucked away into Kuryakin's pocket for future study.  That done, Illya retrieved the pack of cigarettes and rolled them back up into his sleeve.

 

                He drew a shallow breath, just enough to keep himself from passing out, and propped Hank up and headed for the nearest exit.    "Should have listened to the Surgeon General, old boy." he tossed over his shoulder before darting out into the hallway.  He settled his sunglasses back in place and moved easily down the corridor towards the drone of the guide.

 

                "Sarah believed that the earthquake to be a message from the spirits that the front of the house was nearly completed, so she blocked off the front 30 rooms and started to build to the rear," the guide was saying as the blond agent rejoined his group.

 

                Napoleon was admiring a series of hand-cut, stained glass windows off to her right and Illya meandered in that direction.

 

                 "I missed you," Solo murmured softly.  "Was there trouble?"

 

                "Not anymore.  It's been taken care of."

 

                 "You smell like almonds."   Solo's nose crinkled up at the observation.

 

                "And thankfully that's all.  Hank, our tall THRUSH friend, wasn't as fortunate."

 

                "Oh?"

 

                "He opened up my pack of cigarettes.  Killing habit, smoking."

 

                "Very.  What about his partner?"

 

                "I think we should have a little chat with her. However, that might be a bit awkward now.  We'll have to catch up with her in the gift shop."

 

                "Too late, she's vanished just after you did.  Probably went off looking for Hank."

 

                "We'll complete the tour and hang around for a bit to see if she comes out with any of the other groups."  Solo moved on to trail behind their tour.  "By the way, did you know this place had 24,000 square feet, 10,000 windows...?”

 

                "...47 fireplaces, 40 staircases, 40 bedrooms, 13 bathrooms, 6 kitchens, 3 elevators and one shower, yes I know."

 

                "How did you...?"

 

                "Read it in the gift shop."

 

                 "Oh."

 

                They returned to the car and began to wait...and wait. By the time 7:30 had rolled around, most of the employees had left and the parking lot was empty except for their car.

 

                "Napoleon, this is hopeless.  Either she's flown back to the coop or she's hiding out in there."

 

                "Well, we could force our way in there and look for her, but that could be deadly."  Napoleon patted his hair into place and straightened his tie.  "Or, we could wait a while longer or, and this gets my vote, we could go find some dinner."

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

                Napoleon Solo sipped his wine and watched a plane approach for landing not very far from his window.  He had to admit that the 94th Aero Squadron was one of the stranger restaurants he'd been in.  The whole place was done up as a French farmhouse during World War II.  The walls were sand bagged, authentic World War I & II mementos were scattered about, old war movies played in the bar.  It all reminded him of stories his father had told him.  However, the food was excellent and plentiful, the white wine properly chilled and the waiters prompt and courteous.

 

                He let his attention wander to his blond partner and scrutinized him for a long moment.  Back to his normal attire, Illya appeared calm, relaxed, but Solo guessed that only now was he coming to terms with the death he'd caused this afternoon.  Kuryakin had drunk his cocktail and first glass of wine faster than normal, but Napoleon knew all too well the response he'd get if he pried.  Illya had to deal with things in his own way and Solo didn't understand what exactly that was, but it worked for him and that was all that really mattered.

 

                "It's strange," Illya muttered into his wine glass, half to himself, half to no one in general.

 

                "What is, old friend?"  Solo sat up, leaning towards him.

 

                 "In World War II, we were allies united upon a common front.  By Korea, we were sworn enemies.  It doesn't take long, does it?"

 

                "Not when nations and the belief of what is right and wrong is involved, not that that mattered so much in the thick of the fight.  When you come right down to it, THRUSH and UNCLE aren't that different."

 

                "No, I suppose not."   He took a long drink of wine.  “Why do you suppose they were there today?”

 

                “Don’t know.  I couldn’t imagine THRUSH using such a public place for a satrapy. Maybe they were just taking a tour – luck of the draw that we would run into them.  Or maybe they were tailing us.”

 

                “Impossible, Hank was mad enough to have not waited.  Barely five minutes passed between when he thumbed me…”

 

                “Fingered,” Solo corrected, absentmindedly.

 

                “Whatever.  He wasn’t about to lose his chance at revenge.”  Illya grunted and twisted in his chair.  "What is stabbing...?"  He dug into a pocket and pulled out a handful of miscellaneous objects.

 

                 "You pilfered from the THRUSH?" Solo asked, setting down his glass.

 

                "Yes, but there's really not that much here.  A few pieces of paper, some coins and this monster."  Illya passed the key over to Solo.

 

                He held the warm brass key closer to the lantern and squinted, "N.P.S. #1058.  Any ideas?"

 

                 "Not really.  You'd probably need a dictionary of acronyms to figure that out."

 

                "Library would have one."

 

                "It's closed."

 

                "But it'll be open tomorrow."  Solo dropped the key into the breast pocket of his jacket for safe keeping. "We'd better finish up now.  We've got a long drive ahead of us."

 

 

 

                Tory Cerino wiped the sweat from his face and wearily sunk into the rattan chair.  The heat was killing him; he couldn't sleep, eat, nothing but drink and it was all the fault of Solo and Kuryakin.

 

                He picked up a pencil and snapped it in half.  The gesture didn't make him feel any cooler, but it helped restore his good-nature, especially when he pretended it was one of Solo's fingers or, even better, Kuryakin's scrawny neck.

 

                "Anybody I know?"  Nathan Barre poked his head around the corner of Cerino's cubicle.  "Don't tell me you've already heard the news."

 

                "Okay, I haven't already heard the news.  What news?" Tory tossed the stubs towards a nearby container.

 

                "Guy by the name of Hank Simms was found dead."

 

                "So?  It happens."

 

                "But his partner said the last person with him was one, Illya Kuryakin."

 

                "Mother love a rubber duck!  Why doesn't someone get rid of those guys?"

 

                "From what I understand, they're part cat – they just won’t die, more lives than they know what to do with.  But wait, I haven't finished.  When she finally found him, he’d been picked clean. Beforehand, he had a key."

 

                "Not 'the' key…not ‘the’ key, please, please, pleased, please, tell me it wasn’t that key…"

 

                "They were meeting for the courier at Winchester Mystery House after we shut down the San Jose plant.  How Solo and Kuryakin found out is beyond us."

 

                Tory's head sunk to his arms and his shoulder shook. Barre had to lean close to hear the softly muttered, "Kill them.  I don't care if it takes every man we've got.  Kill them.  I want them dead, fini, kaput, extinct, defunct.  Do you understand me?"

 

                 "You're coming in clear as a bell, oh Disillusioned One."

 

 

                Napoleon Solo rolled over in bed and wondered what woke him.  He lay quietly for a moment, listening to the noises of the city beyond the window.  Then he saw the silhouette against the curtains - someone was standing outside on the fire escape and there appeared to be a gun in his hand.

 

                Napoleon was well aware that a sudden movement might warn his assailant and possibly force his hand and he wondered how best to wake his partner.  Illya was a normally light sleeper, so it shouldn't be too big a task.  Finally, Solo rolled over and draped an arm and leg over his partner.

 

                At first there was nothing and then Solo perceived a slight stiffen beneath his arm.  The voice that followed was cold and threatening.

 

                “Napoleon, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you have to the count of three to move back onto your own side of the bed.  One…”

 

                “Illya, listen to me, we have company," Solo said softly.  "Looks like a bogey on the fire escape."

 

                "Apparently we are on to something."  Illya's response was equally quiet, but startlingly sleepless as the Russian instantly came awake.  "What should we do?"

 

                "At the moment, nothing.  I want to be sure of the intent before I shoot."

 

                Illya, on his stomach, turned his head, a slow sleeper's movement, so that he could see the window. "Looks like he's packing."

 

                "You have something?"

 

                 "Of course."  Illya's hand grasped the cool metal of the P-38's butt that rested beneath his pillow

 

                "I think your side would be good."  Solo prepared himself for the movement.  “I’m going to lift my arm and leg enough for you to slide out

 

                "I'll cover you."

 

                Kuryakin slid easily from the bed, hands braced upon the mattress for a better aim and Solo followed a scant second later.

 

                For five long minutes, they crouched there, waiting, ready for attack that never came.  The silhouette apparently decided they were more than he could handle and moved on.

 

                "What was that?"  Illya asked as he stood, tugging his pajama bottoms back into place, "a yellow-bellied THRUSH?  I didn’t know such a thing existed.  I figured it for his partner or a friend."

 

                Solo took his weapon and went to the window. Using its barrel, he pushed aside the curtain and carefully peeked around the edge.

 

     There was the figure, poised, half in and half out of another room.

 

                "Illya, call the front desk and tell them I think they have a burglary in progress in the next room."  Napoleon lowered the gun and trudged back to bed.  "This job is beginning to get to me."

 

                 "Not as much as that robber's is about to get to him," Illya said, cradling the phone's receiver.

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

                The two UNCLE agents sat huddled over a book at the tiny table.  No one seemed to be paying them the least bit of attention, although Solo still wasn't sure that was really the case.  Ever since the previous night's incident, he felt as though he was being watched - and after having been an agent for as long as he had, it paid to listen to one's instincts.

 

                 "Here we go," Illya said, running his finger down the list.  "NOW, NPN, NPS, National Park Service...National Park Service?"

 

                "Guess we call them and see if they're missing a key, or at least if they know where this one leads."  Solo stood to leave, but the Russian was unmoving.  "Illya, what's wrong?"

 

                "UMW, UN, UNCL...nothing, just checking."  He closed the book, while smiling at his partner.  "Sometimes, validation is nice."

 

                Solo shook his head and walked slowly to the front doors as Illya returned the volume of acronyms to the reference librarian.  He watched the rain and traffic for a long minute, not expecting anything, but making sure all the same.

 

                "All set?"  Kuryakin appeared beside him.  "There's a phone down on the corner.  We should be able to call from there."

 

                "Fine," Solo murmured, unmoving.

 

                "Napoleon, are you still on edge?"

 

                "Yup, and I don't know why.  I've got a little bell right here," he pointed to the back of his head, "going off like mad."

 

                He led the way out of the library, pulling up his collar against the cold, wet wind and stopped to look for a phone booth.  "There it is," he pointed, "but it appears to be busy."

 

                "How about that one?"  A second booth across the street stood empty, ready for a paying customer.

 

                "Lead on, McDuff."  Solo glanced to make certain the light was with them and they began to cross.  From nowhere, a bus appeared, careening, going much too fast for the rainy conditions.  If Solo hadn't reacted as fast as he did, it would have caught Illya, possibly both of them.  His sudden jerk pulled Kuryakin off his feet, stumbling back into Solo.

 

                 Illya righted himself and took several deep breaths shaken by the close call.  The bus, for its part, continued its wild path down the street, amid the blare of protesting horns.

 

                 "You okay, Mister?" asked a street vendor as they reached the sidewalk.

 

                "I think so, thank you."  Illya straightened his jacket and looked around.  "Are they always that crazy?"

 

                 "The buses?  Not usually, but you know, I don't think that was one of ours.  Looked a lot like one, but the markings weren't quite right.  After selling papers at this corner for fourteen years, you get to know what city buses look like."

 

                 "Thank you for that information," Solo patted Illya's shoulder.  "We should make that call now."  They walked off and Solo waved back at the vendor.

 

                "That was interesting," he commented, reaching for the phone book.  "How much you want to bet that our other agent was run down by the same type of bus."

 

                Illya turned his back against the wind and rain while Solo thumbed through the phone book.

 

                "Ah, Illya, do you have any money?"  Napoleon patted his pockets in apparent dejection.  "Preferably American currency.  I'm not jamming another machine with drachmas, pesos, or bhats."

 

                "It's not my fault I hadn't gotten down to the currency exchange.  Besides, you should have looked at it first," Illya muttered, pulling out a handful of change and passing over the required coins after a moment’s search.

 

                "Thank you," Solo retorted coldly, disappearing back into the relative warmth and comfort of the booth and began to dial.

 

                Illya was just about to tell Solo he'd wait for him in the car when the agent emerged, a smile on his face, a bounce in his step.

 

                "Well?"

 

                 "The Park Service was quite startled that we had this key to begin with and asked all sorts of unnecessary questions, but eventually they saw it our way.  To make a long story short..."

 

                 "Too late," Illya interrupted, pulling his jacket tighter against a gust of bone-chilling wind.

 

                 "...it goes to an iron gate out at Gunning Placement #6."

 

                "I shudder to ask the next question.  Where might this be located?  Anywhere on this coast or are we in for another cross country trip?"

 

                 "My eternal pessimist," Solo said, attempting to smooth his hair into place.  "Of course it's on this coast.  In fact, it's right across the Bay."

 

 

 

                Napoleon skillfully maneuvered their car down the narrow road, ever on the lookout for more problems.  They weren't being followed, as far as he could tell.  Perhaps the incident earlier had just been coincidence.

 

                "So tell me about these gunning placements," Illya Kuryakin prompted, staring out at the passing scenery.    The morning’s rain has passed and sunlight played tag with clouds as they raced across the sky. 

 

 

                "Back in World War II, the United States was worried that San Francisco might be a possible target for attack from the Japanese. These outposts were built for that reason.  All along this coastline, anywhere you see a clump of trees, there's an old battery site."

 

                "Too bad they didn't talk to local horticulturalists first."

 

                "Why?"

 

                 "They apparently planted trees that would grow fast, but aren't native to this area.  Look how they stick out. Any pilot worth his insignia would notice that.  Any more obvious and they'd have to paint bull’s-eyes and pass out maps."  Illya was not impressed with American ingenuity.

 

                Solo chuckled and pulled the car into a shaded spot. "Apparently, we aren't the only ones interested in the area," he remarked, regarding the numerous other vehicles crammed into the area.  Kids running around, families laying various items out on picnic tables, all very much the scene of serenity.

 

                "Wonder if they have any idea about the history they're sitting on." Illya climbed out and paused, trying to get his bearings. "Where is this Gunning Placement #6?"

 

                "Should be over there," Solo, still in the car, pointed in an off-handed way.  "This is certainly an unusual park, but I suppose it's much more profitable this way."  He got out and found himself alone.  Apprehension gave way to amused annoyance as he spotted a blond head entering a tunnel that was marked merely, 'No. 6'.

 

                He followed at a more leisurely pace.  If THRUSH was on to them, he wasn't in any hurry to walk into a trap.  If they weren't, which was becoming more and more unlikely, then there was no need for urgency.  He walked into the tunnel, pausing beside a rusty, but still formidable steel gate.  Obviously, they had interconnecting corridors between each installation, which made sense.  Considering the sheer size of the thing, they could probably bring whole battalions in and still not be crowded.

 

                "Hey, Napoleon, look at this," Illya waved him on, squatting beside something.

 

                As he approached, Solo saw what had captivated the younger agent.  Cut into the concrete was a sunken pit; circular pad raised slightly, heavy iron rings still in place.

 

                "The guns sat there and fired at anything hostile up to 12 miles, or so I understand," Solo said, affording it more attention than the graffiti-stained walls.  "Not that they had much to shoot at except practice targets.  What we want is back here."

 

                "Right," Illya mumbled eyes still on the pad, mind obviously elsewhere.  He joined Solo and peered down into the corridor.  "Sure is dark in there."

 

                "Ah, but you brought a flashlight."  Solo dug into his pocket for the key.  He undid the padlock and dragged the gate back just enough to allow him to squeeze in, but he stepped aside and gestured.

 

                "After you, my dear Mr. Kuryakin."

 

                "No, no, you go first."  Illya gestured him onward. "After all, you are the senior agent and," he observed, handing him a small black object, "you do have the flashlight."

 

                They crept into the tunnel together, stepping over the trash and rubble the beam picked out.  An uneasy feeling washed over Solo and he stopped, directing the light in each direction.  Behind them, they could still hear the kids shouting and laughing, a reassuring sound in this eerie darkness.

 

                "There are rooms off to either side," Solo whispered, for the sheer reason that the atmosphere demanded it.

 

                "Probably offices or storage," Illya guessed as he carefully made his way to one wall and peered inside. "Could you shine your light over here?"

 

                "Find something?"

 

                "Not much, just some old, stacked cans, a couple of pallets worth, from the looks of it."

 

                "You're kidding!"  Solo joined him and together they moved further into the room.  "They must be storing the tainted stuff here and preparing to flood the market with the regular soda."

 

                "Once we build up enough of a following that isn't based on the newness of the product, we will introduce the contaminated soda and San Francisco will be brought to its knees."  A third voice echoed within the small chamber and both men went for their guns while trying to locate its source.  "Now, say good-bye, UNCLEs."

 

                At the gun retort, Solo dropped the flashlight and himself to the floor, but too late.  He felt a blazing stab in a shoulder and he involuntarily gasped.

 

                "Napol...?"  A second shot cut Illya off and down, from Solo's guess at the grunt that followed, but he couldn't see anything.  He struggled to draw a breath, but his lungs were fighting him. His head sunk to the floor and he lost consciousness.

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

 

                Napoleon Solo was hot, very hot.  Well, he decided, if I'm dead and hot, we all know where the famous N. Solo ended up.  Somehow, he had hoped for better.  There were voices murmuring.  'Death', one mentioned, 'our drugs on immunity systems.'  This made no sense, Solo thought, and then he heard the birds chirping and the chattering of monkeys.

 

                Birds?  Monkeys?   In Hell?  He forced open a sticky eye and squinted at his surroundings.  THRUSH Hell, that is, he revised his thoughts.

 

                He was tied spread-eagle to a metal-frame bed, a dull throb behind his eyes and an ache in his shoulder announcing the effects of a THRUSH mercy bullet.  Slowly, Napoleon's vision cleared and he raised his head a bit to look around. Not far from him, Illya Kuryakin was in a similar situation and still out from the looks of things.  The Russian’s skin was littered with bruises and there was a dried trickle of blood at one corner of his mouth. 

 

                "Well, well, Prince Charming is with us,” Tory Cerino jumped down from the ledge he'd been perched on and walked closer to the bed.

 

                “What did you do to him,” Solo growled, struggling within his restraints.

 

                “Oh, he woke up during transport.  They didn’t have any more sleeper bullets, so they resorted to a more primitive sleep aid.  I’ll say this for your little buddy, he’s one tough cookie.

Now, if our fair Princess will join us."  He took up a bucket and dashed the contents into Kuryakin's face.  He grinned hugely back at Solo.  “Salt water,” he said.

 

                Illya came to with a sputter, jerking at his bonds in a fashion that made Solo cringe.  After a split second, he fell back with a grunt and spat out a mouthful of pink-tinged water.

 

                "Much better than a kiss, don't you think?"  Tory smiled and approached the doused Russian.  "Hello, Mr. Kuryakin, how are you?"   He spoke much louder than he needed and Illya grimaced in pain.

 

                "Fine, thank you, for being dead."  Illya glanced past him to Napoleon; relief showing briefly on his face as Solo waggled his fingers at him.

 

                "Welcome to the Funny Farm," Solo said, deadpan,

 

                "So appropriately put,” Tory clapped his hands together lightly.  "You might also add your crypt away from crypt while you're at it.  You're not fooling me a second time."

 

                "Second?" Illya puzzled.  "Has there been a first?"

 

                You don't recognize me?  I am crushed."  Tory put a hand to his forehead in mock agony.  "Of course, when you met me last, I had a moustache and was several pounds heavier.  The moustache I had to shave - the tropics do that to a man.  And as for this sweatbox you stuck me in, well, I now have a 26 inch waist.  Makes it a female dog to find clothes.  Oh, and I have this."  He pulled a fake moustache from a shirt pocket and stuck it in place.  "Remember me now?"

 

                "Female dog?" Solo repeated, thinking hard, and then he sighed.  "Hello, Tory, how's tricks?"

 

                "Almost stopped dead in their tracks, thanks to you two.  I have never seen agents with better luck than the pair of you - not that it will help you now, of course."

 

                 "You said tropics.  Might I ask where in the tropics?" Napoleon used the time to shake off the effects of the sleeper bullet, trying to think.  He'd heard something as he was coming to, but couldn't quite remember.

 

                "Booming, bustling downtown Haiti, well sort of in the suburbs actually.  Scourge of anything this side of the equator.  THRUSH sent me here after that little falderal in Hong Kong.  When one is sentenced to Hell, one learns to think like the devil and that's just what I did."

 

                "That soda idea is hellish enough.  Want to let us know the rest?"

 

                "Not really.  You guys are fairly bright, as idiots go. You talk amongst yourselves and figure it out.  And enjoy the cell; it's the coolest spot in the whole compound which isn’t really saying much."  He walked to the door and looked back over his shoulder.  "I have some work to do."  With that, he exited.

 

                "Haiti?  We must have been out for quite a while." Solo studied the ceiling of their concrete room.  "Would like to know what they use in their bullets.  Ours don't last that long."

 

                "Ours usually don't need to," Illya interrupted.   He spat out another mouthful of saliva and blood and began straining at his bonds again.  Muscles corded, taut with effort, but the straps held securely.  Sweating and panting, he fell back, against the mattress.  "For a THRUSH, he's amazingly close-mouth about this contaminated soda."  He stopped when it became apparent that Solo wasn't listening.  "What's wrong?"

 

                 "Something I heard when I was coming to.  It was...um something about their drug and I think 'immunity system' was mentioned too.  And death."

 

                "Please don't tell me THRUSH has figured out how to rob the body of its immunity system with this soda."

 

                 "Okay, THRUSH hasn't figured out..."

 

                "Not funny, Napoleon.  I sincerely hope you were in the throes of a drug-induced hallucination.  Otherwise..."

 

                "We'd have no defense against them or our diseases. Illya, if this is where they're manufacturing the stuff, we've got to stop it."

 

                "Well, unless you're tied less securely than I am, neither of us is going anywhere at the moment."

 

                "Agreed.  I guess we wait.  At least, we've got a little time on our side."

 

 

 

 

                "So, how goes our sales?"  Tory pulled off his sweat stained shirt and threw it vengefully into a corner.  From his seat on a cot, Nathan Barre picked up a clipboard and flipped over a few sheets of paper.

 

                "Not bad really.  But we don't have any sizeable chunk of the market yet, so we’re still in a holding pattern for phase two."

 

                "But UNCLE doesn't know that.  They are going to attempt to pull our stuff off the shelves and come up looking like gopher guts.  They'll warn all the right people and for nothing.  What good will it do to listen to them a second or third time?  You know, the more I think about this, the more my toes curl."  Tory dug a clean shirt from his locker and shook it free from wrinkles.

 

                "Have you tried fiber?"  At Tory's sour look, he grinned.  "Sorry, I couldn't resist.  The real shame is that we couldn't have used real bullets on those two. At least we got some good licks in with Blondie."

 

                "I guess their brains are worth it, especially Solo's. God only knows what's crawling around in Kuryakin's skull.  I'm more worried about holding on to them.  Together or apart, they are just as worrisome.  They are two of the slipperiest fish I've ever caught."

 

                 "I'm sure you'll think of something."  Barre held up a glass of tepid water and saluted him.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

                Napoleon's head came up with a jerk as their cell door opened and Tory Cerino stepped in, slapping his hands together with a relish that made Solo's stomach flop.  Illya merely regarded the man quietly.

 

                "Howareya, howareya, howareya?"  Tory crossed the space with three strides.

 

                "Wonderful, apart from some numbness," Solo said calmly.

 

                "Well, we're gonna take care of that right now." Cerino snapped his fingers and a guard entered, taking out a knife and moving to Solo's side.  With one deft movement, Napoleon's arms were free, then his legs.  “Not the Russian, my friend,” Tory said to the guard.  “Let’s leave him where he is for the time being.”

 

                "I was wrong, Illya. They're not numb," Napoleon corrected, as he struggled into a sitting position with Tory's help. He eased his limbs into their first changed position in hours, perhaps days and winced at the aches.

 

                "We have been racking our brains trying to decide what to do with the pair of you while the Big Boys fly in.  THRUSH is sending a special envoy for you to take you back for a friendly question and answer session with the Powers That Be.  However, we've got to keep you, unfortunately, alive until then."  Tory patted Solo on the shoulder and rose, pacing the small room.  "Now, Mr. Solo, I want you to promise me that you will behave yourself.  Any trouble and I will be forced to sever your partner's Achilles tendon."  The guard walked to the Russian’s cot and stood, ready for the command.

 

                "You said..."

 

                "I didn't say anything about being fully mobile.  As long as your mouths work, THRUSH will be more than happy with what I do."

 

                "That's so comforting," Illya muttered.

 

                "I thought so, now on your feet, Mr. Solo.  You're due for a change of clothes."

 

                Obediently, Solo allowed himself to be led to a smaller room and given poplin linen shirt and pants.  His suits, shoes, even underwear were exchanged for THRUSH-issue items.

 

                “Now for a little examination, Mr. Solo as we have to be sure you aren’t hiding anything.”  Tory snapped his fingers and two more guards moved in to begin a very thorough, less than comfortable search.

 

Finally he was ushered into a well-stocked lab and past cages with monkeys, some agitated, some huddling in corners, as much a prisoner as he was.  Guards were stationed every few feet, none within easy reach.  Finally they halted before a large concrete and glass room and he was roughly pushed inside.  Still mindful of the threat against his partner, he checked his impulse to rush the door and attempt an escape.

 

                "Sorry if the guys were a bit rough, Mr. Solo, but they have so few hobbies here.  And that search should take care of any little devices we might have missed the first time around and render you fairly harmless.  One down, one to go – ta!”

 

                “Cerino,” Solo shouted, his voice muffled by the thick glass.  When it became apparent that he was being ignored, Napoleon sat down upon a narrow cot and studied the room instead.  There was a second cot against the opposite wall and that was it, no tables, chairs, toilet, nothing.  Interested, he lifted a corner of the straw-filled mattress and ran a hand over the hard solid piece of metal – nothing that could be pulled loose and fashioned into a weapon.  The cot in turn was welded to the floor.  The front was entirely glass, double paned, bullet proof and pretty much everything else proofed as well, Solo decided.  There were no facilities, not even a pail that could be used as an improvised weapon.   He had to admit that this was a pretty escape proof cell.

 

                The time crawled slowly onward.  He paced, he laid down, he sat, he stood up and resumed pacing.  Each minute felt like an hour until his attention was drawn by movement outside his glass cell.  Two guards were half dragging, half-carrying his partner.  Illya began struggling with them, as if suddenly having regain consciousness and the ensuing break out of activity resulted in his partner being tossed rather violently into a table, followed by a rifle but to his kidneys.  The Russian went completely to the floor and Solo pounded his fist against the glass.

 

                Tory grinned and aimed a finger at him.  Napoleon strained to hear the words through the glass, but then the door was opened and guns aimed at his midsection.  Tory stepped around the back of them and grinned.  “There we are all squeaky clean and ready to hunt bear.”  His gun never wavered off Solo as Kuryakin was hauled over to the second cot and unceremoniously dropped onto it, eliciting a groan from the man as he landed.

 

“Feel free to talk amongst yourselves,” Cerino said, with a chuckle.  “I’ve got work to do. We were going to put gorillas in here, but you'll do for the moment.  I do hope you're not shy about anything.  I'll be back later to check on you."  He clamped the door shut and walked away.

 

Immediately, Solo was at his partner’s side, kneeling by the cot, his hand on the Russian’s trembling shoulder.  “Illya, they’ve gone. Are you badly hurt?”

 

“Not as badly as I plan to hurt that little SOB when I get my hands on him.”  The Russian trembled from repressed anger, not pain and Solo was relieved to see anger snapping in the those blue eyes.  Nothing was quite as dangerous as Kuryakin mad.   Illya rolled over and nearly off the cot before Solo stopped him.  “Why in God’s green earth they’d think UNCLE would hide things where they looked is beyond me.  I’m flexible, but I’m not double jointed.”

 

Illya got stiffly to his feet and walked over to the glass.  He thunked a knuckle against it, but it elicited no response from the guard.

 

“He knows we can’t break through it – even if we had something to throw against it,” 

 

"Well, Ollie, this is another fine mess."  Napoleon tilted his head back to rest against a convenient wall.

 

                "I've always wondered what it felt like to be a pigeon under glass."  Kuryakin held his palm up to the steady flow of cool air coming in from a vent.

 

                "Pheasant, Illya."

 

                "Whatever, I just hope no joker turns off our air. Asphyxiation is not the way I want to go."

 

                "I'd prefer not to go at all," Solo murmured, looking about at their small cubicle.  "At least we're soundproof, unless someone out there can read lips," he sighed, then continued.  "How thick do you suppose these walls are?"

 

                "Don't know, about an inch or so.  Why?"

 

                "I've got a glass cutter they missed."

 

                "I and my Achilles tendon beg you to reconsider and be patient for while.  They are expecting us to try something soon, but, from what I deduce while being manhandled is that the THRUSH envoys won't be coming in for a few days yet.  Otherwise, they would have left us where we were."

 

                "So?" Solo asked, suspiciously.

 

                "I'd like to have an alternative if my original plan and these chemicals don't work."  Illya partially revealed several test tubes hidden in a pant's pocket.  "That was why I let guards knock me over that table.”

 

                "Illya, you never cease to amaze me.  I didn't know you were a pickpocket to boot."

 

                 The Russian gave him a sly smile.  "One never knows what might come in handy where.  Now, I think it's time we watch.  Since I can read lips, this might just work in our favor.

 

Three days passed, crawling by, time broken only by the arrival of their meals through a small slot.  They were taken out, one at a time, to use the toilet and showers, always under heavy guard.  Both men remained on their best behavior, apparently resigned to their fate.

 

                "Are you ready to give this a try tonight?"  Illya looked up from his plastic food tray.  "If I have to eat any more of this reconstituted stuff, I am going to defect."

 

                "Are you going to burn your way out?"

 

                "Nope, these aren’t to get us out, but instead to use once we get out.”  Illya chewed on his bottom lip   “I'm aiming for that motor.  We have a guard change in two hours, which means we will be left unobserved for almost three minutes.  By stuffing the vent shaft with our mattresses, that should be enough to overload the motor enough to make it burn out."

 

                "That motor?"  Solo looked over at their only supply of oxygen.  “Seems a bit iffy.  What if they decide to leave us here?”

 

                “THRUSH Central would not be happy, but the couriers are coming in tonight for you, so one way or the other, our hand is forced.”

 

                “What about you?”

 

                “Apparently, they have decided to take the testing into the next phase and I am to be a test subject.  Frankly, I’d rather not hang around for that.”

 

                “Have you figured out exactly what’s being tested?”

 

                "Close as I can figure, this chemical kills off the white blood cells and the body is left defenseless against any sort of disease.  They then plan to hold the populace ransom by the threat of introducing a simple virus into the populace.”

 

                “Transmission?”

 

                “Fluids, in any other state, it’s inert.  And it’s just not the soda.  Once that chemical gets into the blood stream, it can be passed by blood, semen, even saliva.” 

 

                “No one would be safe.” 

 

                “Exactly.”

 

                “Then this stops here and now.”

 

                “So that begs the question, Mr. Solo.  Just exactly how long can you hold your breath?”

 

 

                     

                The cry of 'Fire in the lab!' brought Tory out of an otherwise peaceful sleep.  He rose, slapping Nathan's leg as he passed the tall man's cot.

 

                "C'mon, we've got an emergency."  He didn't wait for the man, but grabbed a shirt and ran out.

 

                The lab was billowing with smoke as he arrived, the culprit an overloaded motor.  From within the glass booth, both UNCLE agents were slumped to the floor, obviously in the advanced stages of oxygen deprivation.

 

                "Forget that!  Get the prisoners out of there!  I can’t hand dead men over." Tory ordered to the men who were presently dousing the motor.

 

                Immediately, all attention was diverted and the pair of semi-conscious agents were helped, coughing, from their cell.  Both were limp, a bit grey and seemingly helpless.  At least, until Solo yanked his arms together, sending his rescuers into one another with a dull thud.

 

                Illya, as if on cue, spun, dashing the contents of two test tubes into the faces of closest guards.

 

                Because of this sudden turn of events, the still smoking, still-overloaded motor was abandoned and the mounting pressure went unnoticed as THRUSH and UNCLE agents exchanged blows.  At least that was the case until the motor sputtered, coughed and suddenly exploded, showering the room with bit of metal shards.  The blast shattered the glass fronts of the cages.

 

                The explosion knocked Illya into Solo's arms, but Kuryakin didn't stop there, but dragged himself and his partner to the floor, below the rain of glass and metal.

 

                Monkeys, free and wild with fear, raced through the lab, sending glassware and their contents over in their mad dash for escape, THRUSH guard, hot on their heels.

 

                Illya got to his feet and looked around through the fumes and fire.  Solo, staggering, but standing and as exhausted as his partner, gestured wildly.

 

                 "Let's follow their example and get out of here."

 

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

 

                Napoleon glanced up from the mass of paperwork that swarmed over his desktop like a mass of   bees and grinned as his partner approached him.

 

                 "Hello, Napoleon, I thought you could use a break."  He handed Solo a cup of coffee and brushed his hair back from his forehead and off the bandage he wore there, one last souvenir he’d picked up from the lab.  "How goes it?"

 

                "Thanks.  I'll never understand how so much paperwork can pile up on my desk so fast."

 

                 "Easy, everyone uses it for their own personal dumping ground.  It’s an unspoken rule here.  Find a field agent who’s gone and figure out how to get your work reassigned to him."  Illya sunk into a chair and sipped carefully from his cup.  After a long moment, he spoke, his voice soft.  "I've been wondering about something, Napoleon."

 

                 "What?"

 

                "Well, all those monkeys escaped from that lab and they were infected with that chemical."

 

                "They're probably all dead by now, especially in a tropical situation.  You know how germs love to flourish in those conditions."

 

                "That's what bothers me.  What if they didn't?  What if they bit someone...?”  Illya trailed off, then resumed. "Could be one helluva an epidemic and we'd have started it."

 

                "That's one way of looking at it.  We also saved a lot of people by burning that lab and rounding up all the THRUSH."

 

                "I suppose.  What will they do with Cerino?"

 

                "Not much, I suspect.  He's not high up enough to trade for someone or have any real secrets himself.  I guess it's Mr. Waverly's headache."  Solo picked up his mug and then put it down without drinking.  "What is all of this...this stuff?"  He spread sheets of paper out.

 

                "Looks like billing notices.  Apparently Mr. Waverly made good his threat to charge you for all that overnight service."

 

                "Of all the things..."  Solo retrieved his cup and took a healthy swig from it, only to nearly choke before swallowing the mouthful.  "What is that?"

 

                "Coke."  Illya rose to leave.  "I'm told things go better with it."  Then he slipped out before Solo, his posture threatening, could tackle him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
